I    SMITH'S 

BATTER^y 


l^hamber. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


j^lLMEa  COLLECTION 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2010  witli  funding  from 

University  of  Nortli  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/smithsbatteryOOcham 


By 

Modern  Masters  of  Fiction 


SMITH'S 
BATTERY 

By 
Robert  W.  Chambers 

^i/Mor^" Ashes  of  Empire,"  "The 
Conspirators,"  etc. 

^        ^        I' 


NEW  YORK 
Frederick  A.  Stokes    Company 

Publishers 


From 
"THE    HAUNTS   OF   MEN," 

Copyright,  1895,  by  Bacheller,  Johnson  &  Bacheller. 

Copyright,  1896,  by  S.  S.  McClure  Company. 

Copyright,  1897,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

Copyright,  1898,  by  Peter  Fenelon  Collier. 

Copyright,  1898,  by  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Copyright,  1898,  by  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


SSSSSSESBS3SBBSSBSESSSSSSSEESSSSSSSSSSESSSSS^S3SESSSBSSSBSSS 

CON  TENTS 

Smith's  Battery 

An  International  Affair  .     . 
Pickets 

Page 
I 

•     51 

.       7Q 

The  God  of  Battles       ....     97 


683016 


SMITH'S 
ATTERY 


Impotent  Pieces  of  the  Game  He  plays 
Upon  this  Checker-board  of  Nights  and  Days  ; 
Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  checks,  and  slays. 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  Closet  lays. 

Fitzgerald. 

ON  the  evening  of  the  15th 
the  cavalry  left  by  moon- 
light, riding  along  the  rail- 
road toward  Slow-River  Junction. 
The  bulk  of  the  infantry  followed 
two  days  later,  leaving  behind  them 
"The  Dead  Rabbits,"  —  a  New 
York  regiment,  —  a  squad  of  cavalry, 
and  Smith's  four-gun  battery,  to  gar- 
rison a  hamlet  inhabited  principally 
by  mosquitoes. 

The  hamlet  of  Slow-River  con- 
tained a  red  brick  church,  some 
houses,  a  water-tank,  and  a  race-track. 

[^]        in 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

The  "  Dead  Rabbits  "  established 
their  warren  in  the  race-track  sheds, 
the  cavalry  guarded  the  railway  and 
water-tank,  and  Smith's  battery  dec- 
orated the  graveyard  around  the  red 
brick  church. 

The  inhabitants  of  Slow-River, 
barring  the  mosquitoes,  had  mostly 
disappeared  toward  Dixie  before  the 
arrival  of  Wilson's  division.  When 
Wilson  moved  on  toward  the  Junc- 
tion, leaving  behind  him  the  "  Dead 
Rabbits,"  —  and  Smith's  Battery  to 
take  care  of  them  —  the  non-com- 
batant population  of  Slow-River 
numbered  two,  —  not  including  an 
Ethiopian  of  no  account. 

Smith,  of  Smith's  Battery,  had 
constituted  himself  an  inquisition  of 
one.  The  Reverend  Laomi  Smull, 
pastor  of  the  brick  church,  took  the 
oath  of  allegiance  and  smacked  the 
Book  with  moist  thick  lips.  Mrs. 
Ashley,  the  remaining  inhabitant  of 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

Slow-River,  widow  of  a  Union  of- 
ficer killed  in  the  early  days  of  the 
war,  took  the  oath  earnestly,  then 
told  Smith  who  she  was  and  received 
his  apologies  with  sensitive  reserve. 

"  I  wished  to  take  the  oath,"  she 
said  :  "  I  have  not  had  my  country 
brought  so  near  for  many  months." 

The  Reverend  Laomi  Smull 
clasped  his  soft  fingers  together  and 
surveyed  the  firmament  while  Mrs. 
Ashley  brushed  the  tears  from  her 
blue  eyes.  When  she  thanked  Smith 
for  the  privilege  of  publicly  acknowl- 
edging her  country,  the  Reverend 
Laomi  nodded  and  closed  his  small 
eyes  as  though  in  ecstatic  contempla- 
tion of  a  soul  regenerated. 

"Where's  the  nigger?"  inquired 
Smith  when  Mrs.  Ashley  had  gone 
back  to  her  cottage  below  the  church. 

"  Do  you  refer  to  our  unfortunate 
coloured  brother?"  suggested  the 
reverend  gentleman. 

[J] 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

"  Oh  yes  —  of  course,"  said  Smith, 
fidgeting  with  his  sabre. 

"  Abiatha  is  anglipxg  from  the 
bridge,"  said  Smull,  wagging  his 
double  chin  till  his  collar  creaked. 

"  What  is  he  fishing  for  ? "  inquired 
Smith,  who  was  an  angler. 

"  Fish,"  said  the  Reverend  Laomi, 
andentered  his  church  with  more  agility 
than  his  fat  bulk  appeared  to  warrant. 

At  the  door  he  turned  to  cast  one 
last  sly  glance  at  the  firmament. 

Smith,  distrustful,  and  of  the  earth 
earthy,  walked  back  to  the  graveyard, 
lifting  his  sabre  to  prevent  the  clank- 
ing of  the  scabbard  on  fallen  grave- 
stones. 

"  Look  out  for  that  pastor,"  he 
said  to  Steele  :  "  if  I  know  a  copper- 
head from  a  copper  kettle  he 's  one 
with  double  fangs." 

"  You  think  he  may  play  tricks  ?  " 
asked  Steele,  toasting  a  rasher  of 
bacon  on  the  coals  before  his  feet. 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

"  Yes,  I  do.  He  '11  get  no  passes 
from  me,  I  can  tell  you.  I  'm  going 
up  into  the  church  tower.  Is  there 
a  bell  there  ?  " 

"  A  cracked  one,"  said  Steele. 

"  I  '11  take  the  clapper  out,"  ob- 
served Smith.  He  accepted  a  bit  of 
bacon  from  Steele,  laid  it  on  a  morsel 
of  hardtack,  munched  silently  for  a 
few  minutes,  then  washed  his  break- 
fast down  with  a  tin  of  coffee,  re- 
turned Steele's  salute,  and  entered 
the  church  through  the  vestry. 
Climbing  the  belfry  ladder  on  tiptoe, 
cap  in  hand,  he  could  not  prevent 
the  ladder  from  creaking.  So,  when 
he  stepped  out  on  the  loosely  laid 
planks  beside  the  bell,  he  found  the 
Reverend  Laomi  SmuU  leaning  on 
the  belfry-ledge,  preoccupied  with  the 
sky. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  reverend  gentle- 
man with  a  start, "  is  it  my  young 
friend,  Captain  Smythe  ? " 

Is] 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

"Smith,"  said  the  officer  dryly, 
and  felt  in  the  bell  for  the  iron  clapper. 

"  Where  is  the  clapper  ?  "  he  added, 
turning  on  Smull. 

The  Reverend  Laomi  regarded  him 
calmly. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said. 

To  search  the  person  of  the  minis- 
ter was  Smith's  first  impulse ;  Smull 
divined  it  and  smiled  sadly. 

*'  He  's  thrown  it  from  the  tower 
where  he  can  find  it,"  thought  Smith. 
Then  he  drew  a  jackknife  from  his 
blouse,  cut  the  two  bell-ropes  and 
let  them  drop  to  the  tiled  floor  far 
below.  The  thwack  of  the  ropes 
echoed  through  the  silent  church  ; 
Smith  apologised  for  the  military  pre- 
caution and  stepped  to  the  tower 
parapet.  There  he  could  look  out 
over  the  ravaged  country  toward  the 
Junction  where  rumour  reported  an 
ominous  concentration  of  Union 
troops.     He    could    see    the   water- 


SHSHSaSESHSESaSESHSHSaSHSaSHSHaHHHSESESESHSESESHSaSHSSSHSESa 

SMITH'S     BATTERY 

tower  and  the  railroad  and  cavalry 
patrolling  the  embankment  in  the 
morning  sunshine.  He  could  see 
the  weather-stained  sheds  of  the  race- 
track where  the  "  Dead  Rabbits " 
prowled,  a  nuisance  and  sometimes  a 
terror  to  everybody  except  the  enemy. 
Behind  him  he  heard  the  Reverend 
Laomi  pattering  about  over  the  loose 
planks  that  formed  the  belfry  floor- 
ing. 

"  I  shall  station  a  signal  officer 
here,"  he  said  without  turning. 

"  Sir,"  stammered  the  minister. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Smith  Im- 
patiently :  "  we  need  the  church  more 
than  you  do." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Smull  in 
a  peculiarly  soft  voice. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  exclude  you  — " 
began  Smith  ^, turning,  —  and  those 
words  had  wellnigh  been  his  last, 
for  one  leg  sHpped  through  an  unex- 
pected fissure  between  the  planks, 
[7] 


SaSa5a5B55SBSa5S:iH53SH£Z5S5B5HSH5H5H5BSB5S5a5gSBSaS3SHSB5B5a 

SMITH'S     BATTERY 

and  he  clutched  a  beam  beside  him 
and  drew  himself  up,  deadly  pale. 

He  looked  at  SmuU ;  the  clergy- 
man overwhelmed  him  with  congrat- 
ulations on  his  escape  from  pitching 
headlong  to  the  tiled  floor  below.  He 
spoke  of  the  mercy  of  Providence,  of 
the  miracles  of  the  Most  High ;  he 
deplored  the  condition  of  the  belfry 
floor ;  he  reproached  himself  for  not 
noticing  the  fissure. 

"  I  did  not  notice  it  either  —  when 
I  came  up,"  said  Smith. 

He  followed  Smull  down  the  lad- 
der and  out  of  the  church,  return- 
ing the  reverend  gentleman's  salute 
gravely.  Then  he  ordered  Steele  to 
use  the  church  for  barracks  and  march 
his  men  in  without  delay. 

"  Into  the  church  ? "  repeated  Steele. 

"  I  guess  Union  soldiers  won't  des- 
ecrate this  church  or  any  other 
church,"  said  Smith  savagely,  and 
turned  on  his  heel. 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

On  his  way  to  the  river  he  passed 
Mrs.  Asnley's  cottage  ;  she  was  hang- 
ing a  home-made  flag  over  the  porch  ; 
the  stars  and  stripes  were  not  symmet- 
rical, but  they  were  stars  and  stripes. 

She  stood  on  the  top  of  a  ladder, 
hammering  tacks  and  holding  the 
red,  white,  and  blue  folds  in  her 
pretty  mouth.  Occasionally  she  ham- 
mered one  pink-tipped  finger  instead 
of  a  tack ;  at  such  moments  she  re- 
peated, "  Oh  dear  !  " 

Smith,  cap  in  hand,  offered  to  hold 
the  ladder ;  Mrs.  Ashley  thanked 
him  and  continued  to  hammer  se- 
renely, until  she  remembered  her 
ankles  and  descended  precipitately. 
Then  Smith  climbed  the  ladder,  drew 
out  all  the  tacks  Mrs.  Ashley  had 
hammered  in,  rehung  the  "symbol 
of  light  and  law,"  draped  and  nailed  it 
with  military  rigidity,  and  descended, 
covered  with  perspiration  and  mos- 
quito bites. 

[p] 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

Mrs.  Ashley,  cool  and  sweet  in  a 
white  gown  and  black  sash,  thanked 
him  and  offered  him  a  cup  of  tea 
under  the  magnolias.  He  accepted 
and  sat  down,  sabre  between  his 
knees,  to  mop  his  face  and  evade 
mosquitoes  until  she  returned  with 
two  cups  of  cold  tea,  creamless  and 
sugarless. 

"I  have  some  limes — if  you  wish, 
—  Captain  Smith,"  she  ventured, 
holding  out  the  golden-green  fruit 
in  her  smooth  palm. 

He  thanked  her  and  squeezed  a 
lime  into  his  tea. 

Overhead,  among  the  magnolia 
blossoms,  the  summer  harmony  had 
already  begun  with  the  deep  sym- 
phony of  bees  ;  butterflies  hovered 
under  the  perfumed  branches ;  a  grass- 
hopper clicked  incessantly  among  the 
myrtle  vines. 

Mrs.  Ashley  rested  her  chin  on 
her  v/rist  and  looked  at  nothing.     A 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

breeze  began  to  stir  the  folds  of  the 
draped  flag  over  the  porch  ;  the  crim- 
son stripes  undulated,  the  stars  rose 
and  fell. 

"  We  hear  nothing  in  Slow-River," 
said  Mrs.  Ashley:  "  has  anything  im- 
portant happened,  Captain  Smith  ?  " 
Her  voice  was  almost  inaudible. 

"  Nothing  important.  The  last 
battle  went  against  us." 

"  Will  there  be  a  battle  here  ?" 

"  No  —  I  don't  know  —  I  have  no 
reason  to  suppose  so,"  he  said  with 
conscientious  precision.  "If  by  any- 
possible  chance  the  rebel  cavalry- 
should  ride  around  our  army  we 
might  be  visited  here,  but,"  he  added, 
"the  contingency  is  too  remote  for 
speculation." 

"Too  remote  for  speculation?" 
repeated  Mrs.  Ashley  under  her 
breath. 

Smith  looked  up  at  her — he  had 
been  watching  a  file  of  ants  bearing 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

off  minute  crumbs  from  the  biscuit 
he  was  nibbling.  Smith's  shoulder- 
straps  were  too  recent  to  admit  of 
trifling,  and  he  had  an  instinct 
that  Mrs.  Ashley  considered  him 
young. 

"Too  remote  for  speculation,"  he 
repeated,  and  touched  the  down  on 
his  upper  lip  with  decision.  The 
faintest  flicker  of  amusement  stirred 
Mrs.  Ashley's  blue  eyes. 

They  spoke  of  the  war,  of  battles 
on  land  and  sea,  of  sieges  and  block- 
ades, of  prisons  and  of  death.  List- 
ening to  her  passionless  voice  he 
forgot  his  shoulder-straps  for  a  while. 
She  noticed  it.  She  spoke  now  as  a 
very  young  hostess  to  a  distinguished 
guest,  and  he  appreciated  it.  Little 
by  Httle  they  dropped  into  the  half 
frank,  halfguarded  repertoire  peculiar 
to  conventional  civilisation;  he  recog- 
nised her  beauty;  she  conceded  his 
gallantry  ;  the  bees  buzzed  among  the 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

magnolias;  the  warm  breeze  stirred 
the  flag. 

Sitting  there  with  white  fingers  in- 
terlaced, and  blue  eyes  demurely  fixed 
on  his,  she  wondered  at  the  pains  she 
took  to  wind  him  around  the  least  of 
those  white  fingers  of  hers.  Yet  there 
was  reason  enough  for  her ;  her  reason, 
in  concrete  form,  skulked  up-stairs 
under  a  mound  of  bedclothes,  —  a 
sallow-faced,  furtive  young  man, 
reported  killed  at  Bull  Run,  —  a 
deserter  from  the  Union  army,  a 
Rebel  at  heart,  too  cowardly  to  back 
his  convictions,  —  the  blight  and  sor- 
row and  curse  of  her  young  life  — 
her  husband. 

From  the  day  of  their  marriage,  she 
had  found  him  out  and  loathed  him, 
yet,  when  he  marched  with  a  loyal 
regiment,  she  had  bade  him  God- 
speed. 

When  the  news  came  from  Bull 
Run  she  had  wept  and  forgiven  him 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

the  past,  because  he  had  been  good 
to  her  in  death,  —  he  had  left  her  the 
widow  of  a  Union  soldier.  His  appa- 
rition in  Slow-River  almost  killed  her. 
The  Reverend  Laomi  Smull  sarcasti- 
cally bade  her  rejoice  and  put  off  her 
widow's  weeds.     She  did  neither. 

Suddenly  Wilson's  advance  was 
signalled  from  the  hills  beyond  the 
river ;  the  population  of  Slow-River 
fled  Dixie-ward,  —  all  except  young 
Ashley,  who  lay  sleeping ofFa  debauch 
in  his  own  gutter.  The  Reverend 
Laomi  preferred  to  remain  for  several 
reasons.  Hours  after  the  Union  cav- 
alry dashed  into  the  village,  Ashley 
awoke  to  consciousness.  When  he 
comprehended  what  had  happened  he 
crawled  into  bed  and  cursed  his  wife 
and  his  luck  and  the  Union  Army 
impartially. 

With  what  loathing  did  she  aid  in 
concealing  him  !  With  what  despera- 
tion did  she  evade  questions  and  in- 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

trusive  patrols  and  the  quiet  questions 
of  officers,  courteous  young  fellows 
in  blue,  who  accepted  her  word  of 
honour  with  a  bow  and  went  away, 
deceived  by  a  loyal  woman  —  the 
wife  of  a  coward  and  traitor  —  for 
that  traitor's  sake. 

But  she  must  play  the  frightful 
comedy  to  the  end  ;  she  was  doing  it 
now,  smiling  back  at  Smith  with  eyes 
that  caressed ;  with  death  in  her 
heart. 

When  he  rose  to  go  she  dropped 
him  the  quaintest  and  stateliest  cour- 
tesy that  can  be  dropped  by  a  girl 
of  twenty.  His  cap  swept  the  tall 
grass-blades  ;  Southern  chivalry  is  in- 
fectious. So  he  passed  on  his  way 
to  the  river. 

Five  minutes  later  the  Reverend 
Laomi  Smull  appeared  at  the  gate, 
smirked  at  the  young  wife,  entered 
the  cottage,  and  ascended  the  stairs 
with  a   paradoxical    nimbleness  that 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

displayed  two  white  cotton  socks 
and  inadequate  attention  to  personal 
ensemble. 

Smith  pursued  his  way  to  the  river 
through  a  weed-tangled  path  choked 
with  rank  marshy  stalks,  mint,  elder, 
and  wild  lady-slipper.  The'  little 
brown  honey-bees  hummed  from  bud 
to  bud  ;  dragon-flies,  balanced  in  mid- 
air on  quivering  wings,  selected  plump 
mosquitoes  from  the  cloud  that 
wavered  above  Smith's  head,  and 
darted  so  close  to  his  ears  that  he 
dodged  like  a  new  recruit  at  a  bullet. 
When  he  came  to  the  narrow  slug- 
gish river,  where  a  footbridge  swayed 
in  the  amber  eddies,  he  took  his  cigar 
from  his  mouth  and  his  Bible  from 
his  pocket. 

A  dilapidated  individual  of  African 
descent,  legs  dangling  over  the  water, 
fishpole  clasped  in  both  black  fists, 
glanced  up  at  the  young  officer  and 
said  :  "Mohnin,'  suh!"  Smith  nodded, 
[16] 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

looked  hard  at  the  darkey,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  restored  the  cigar 
to  his  lips  and  the  Bible  to  his  pocket. 

"  What  are  you  fishing  for. 
Uncle  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Fishin'  foh  bass,  suh,"  replied 
the  dilapidated  one. 

"Catch  any?"      ' 

"  I  done  cotch  free  bass  an'  a  tarry- 
pin  turkle,  suh." 

"  Want  to  sell  them  ?  " 

"No,  suh." 

"  Going  to  eat  them  all  yourself. 
Uncle  ?  " 

"  I  's  gotter  right  ter,"  said  the 
angler  combatively. 

Smith  glanced  down  on  the  river 
sand  where,  anchored  to  a  string, 
three  plump  bass  floated  out  in  the 
current, 

"  Are  you  going  to  eat  the  terrapin, 
too,  Uncle  ?  " 

"  Go's  I  is,"  sniffed  the  darkey  ; 
"  I  's  gotter  right  ter." 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

"  Let 's  see  it,"  said  Smith. 

The  angler  climbed  down  to  the 
strip  of  sand,  picked  up  the  terrapin, 
and  held  it  out  to  Smith. 

"  How  much  ?  "  asked  Smith. 

"  Two  dollahs,  suh." 

Smith  paid  the  money  grimly, 
picked  up  the  terrapin,  and  stood  a 
moment  watching  the  darkey  climb 
back  to  his  perch  on  the  footbridge. 

"  You  '11  leave  your  footprints  on 
the  sand  of  time,"  said  Smith ; 
"  you  '11  be  in  Wall  Street  in  a  month 
—  or  in  Sing-Sing." 

"  Wha's  dat  yoh  's  a-sayin'  'bout 
leabin'  shoeprints  on  de  san's  ob 
time,  suh  ? "  asked  the  sable  one, 
much  interested. 

"  Nothing.  If  you  get  any  more 
terrapin,  bring  them  to  the  artillery 
camp.     What 's  your  name,  Uncle  ?  " 

"  Nuffin',  suh  .?  " 

"No  name?" 

"  No,  suh,  jess  'Biah,  suh." 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

"Oh  — Alcibiades?  No?  Then 
Abiatha  ?  " 

"  Yaas,  suh." 

"  Whose  darkey  are  you  ?  " 

"  Mis'  Ashley's  niggah,  suh." 

"  Oh  !  And  the  fish  are  for  Mrs. 
Ashley  ?  " 

"Yaas,  suh.  Gwineter  tote  'em 
back  foh  dinner,  suh." 

"  Then,"  said  Smith,  "  take  back 
your  terrapin  too,  you  rascal !  How 
dare  you  sell  your  mistress's  prop- 
erty !  " 

'Biah  watched  the  terrapin  fall  on 
the  sands  again,  then  he  ruefully 
fished  out  the  two  dollars  from  some 
rent  in  his  ragged  coat.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  struggled  to  tell  the  truth, 
—  that  Mrs.  Ashley,  in  the  present 
state  of  her  finances,  would  rather 
have  twenty-five  cents  than  a  dozen 
terrapins.  Perhaps  he  feared  Mrs. 
Ashley's  wrath,  perhaps  a  spark  of 
Mrs.  Ashley's  pride  had  lodged  be- 

r  'o  1 

L  -  y  J 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

neath  his  own  shirtless  bosom.  He 
said  nothing,  but  rose,  holding  his 
fishpole  in  one  hand,  and  sidled  along 
the  footbridge  toward  Smith,  money 
clutched  in  one  outstretched  fist. 

Smith  glanced  at  the  four  silver 
half-dollars. 

"  Keep  them  and  buy  a  coat, 
'Biah,"  he  said,  relighting  his  cigar. 
At  the  same  instant  a  big  bass  seized 
'Biah's  hook  and  made  off  with  it, 
and  'Biah,  losing  his  balance,  dropped 
the  silver  coins  into  the  river.  Then 
the  tattered  African  lost  his  head, 
too  ;  for  a  minute,  bass,  darkey,  pole, 
and  line  became  a  blur  on  the  bridge, 
on  the  sands  below,  and  finally  in 
the  water. 

When  'Biah  emerged,  he  had  the 
bass  by  the  gills  ;  later  he  fished  out 
pole  and  line,  while  Smith,  wading 
through  the  shallows  in  his  cavalry- 
boots,  poked  about  for  the  lost  coins 
with  the  butt  of  his  sabre-scabbard. 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

Ten  minutes  later  'Biah  had  re- 
covered three  of  the  half-dollars. 
Smith  had  found  something  else,  — 
a  bundle  of  soaked  clothes  bearing 
United  States  army  buttons  and  a 
second  lieutenant's  shoulder  straps. 

Instinctively  he  tossed  the  soaked 
packet  into  the  alders  and  walked 
carelessly  back  to  the  footbridge 
where  'Biah,  absorbed  in  disentang- 
ling his  tackle,  breathed  hard  and 
deep  and  muttered  maledictions  on 
"  dat  ole  bull-bass  what  fink  he  know 
a  heap  moh  'n  ole  'Biah." 

"  Done  drap  mah  hook  in  de  hole," 
he  puffed ;  "  gwine  ter  gitter  hook 
an'  tote  mah  fish,  suh.  Mohnin', 
suh,  mohnin'  ; "  and  'Biah  scram- 
bled to  his  feet  and  shuffled  back 
along  the  weed-grown  footpath  that 
led  to  Mrs.  Ashley's  cottage. 

When  the  negro  had  disappeared, 
Smith  leaped  lightly  to  the  sand 
below,  parted  the  alders,  found   the 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

bundle  of  clothes,  and  cut  the  cord 
with  his  sabre. 

"  New  clothes,"  he  muttered  :  "not 
a  patch,  not  a  rag  —  hello  —  what 's 
this  ?  " 

He  drew  a  soaked  bit  of  paper 
from  the  breast-pocket  of  the  jacket, 
and,  standing  in  the  alders,  read  the 
pencilled  memorandum. 

It  was  a  receipt  signed  by  the 
Reverend  Laomi  SmuU  for  pew-rent 
received  from  Anderson  Ashley. 
But  what  troubled  Smith  was  the 
date,  for,  if  Mrs.  Ashley's  husband 
had  been  killed  at  Bull  Run,  how 
could  he  be  renting  pews  from  the 
Reverend  Laomi  in  Slow-River  ? 
Smith  examined  the  paper  closely  ;  it 
read  : 

"  Received  from  Anderson  Ash- 
ley, Esquire,  $3.75,  pew-rent  for  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Anderson  Ashley." 

The  date,  two  months  back,  start- 
led him.     As  he  stood,  holding  the 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

paper,  staring  vacantly  at  the  motion- 
less leaves  on  the  alders,  far  away  he 
heard  the  noon  call  from  the  artillery 
bugles,  taken  up  by  the  cavalry  trum- 
pets at  the  water-tank,  and  passed  on 
to  the  infantry  around  the  race-track. 
He  shoved  the  wet  clothes  under  a 
fallen  log,  opened  the  Bible  in  his 
pocket,  placed  the  folded  receipt  be- 
tween the  leaves,  and,  carrying  the 
Bible  in  one  hand,  sword  in  the 
other,  went  back  along  the  tangled 
footpath  toward  Mrs.  Ashley's  cot- 
tage. 

When  the  Reverend  Laomi  Smull 
displayed  unexpected  agility  on  Mrs. 
Ashley's  staircase,  Ashley  himself, 
hearing  the  ascending  footsteps,  cow- 
ered under  the  bed-quilts  and  turned 
cold  to  the  marrow  of  every  bone. 

"  It 's  me,"  said  the  reverend 
gentleman,  entering  the  bed-room 
and  waving  his  fat  hands  at  the 
pile  of  quilts    under  which    Ashley 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

squirmed  in  fear  :  "  it 's  me,  Ashley," 
he  repeated,  disregarding  the  finer 
points  of  grammatical  construction  : 
"  Moseby's  men  is  in  the  hills  and 
I   don't  know  what  to  do." 

Ashley's  dissipated  face  emerged 
from  the  bed-covers.  Fear  stamped 
every  feature  with  a  grimace  that 
amused  Smull. 

"  What  did  you  say  about  Mose- 
by's men  ?  "  stammered  Ashley. 

"  They  're  in  the  hills  across  the 
river,"  repeated  Smull :  "I  seen  smoke 
on  Painted  Rock." 

"  It 's  a  blockade  still,"  suggested 
Ashley. 

"  No  it  ain't,"  retorted  Smull  ; 
"  it 's  green  wood  burnin'  —  don't  I 
know  a  still,  hey  ?  It 's  Confed- 
erate cavalry,  an'  they  've  ridden 
around  the  Yankee  army,  that 's  what 
they  've  done." 

Ashley  protruded  his  long  pallid 
neck,  looked  around  like  an  alarmed 
1^4] 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

turkey  in  a  weed  patch,  and  finally 
stared  at  Smull. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  he 
asked. 

The  fat  cunning  on  Smull's  face 
was  indescribable. 

"  Do  ?  "  repeated  Smull. 

"Yes,  do!  Didn't  JMoseby  tell 
you  to  ring  the  church  bell  on  Sun- 
day as  many  times  as  there  was 
Yankee  companies  in  Slow-River  ? 
Did  n't  he  tell  you  to  hang  out  your 
washing  according  to  code,  —  a  shirt, 
'  come  ; '  two  shirts, '  run  ; '  a  red  un- 
der-shirt, '  run  like  the  devil '  —  say, 
did  n't  he  and  you  fix  up  the  code  ?  " 

SmuU's  small  eyes  rested  on  the 
door,  then  on  Ashley. 

"  The  Yankee  Battery  Captain 
came  to  look  at  the  bell.  I  threw 
the  clapper  out  into  the  bushes,"  he 
said. 

After  a  moment  he  added  :  "  He 
came  near  falling  through  the  plank 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

floor.  Frightened  me  to  death  — 
most." 

Ashley's  eyes  met  his ;  Smull 
raised  a  fat  white  hand  to  conceal 
the  expression  of  his  mouth. 

"  That 's  all  very  well,"  said  Ash- 
ley petulantly,  "  but  I  reckon  you  'd 
better  go.  If  I  'm  caught  I  'm  toted 
out  to  a  shootin'  match  —  and  I  '11 
be  the  target  too." 

This  observation  appeared  to  start 
a  new  train  of  thought  in  SmuU's 
mind.  And,  as  he  cogitated,  his  ex- 
pression changed  from  sly  malice  to 
complacence,  and  then  to  that  sanc- 
timonious smirk  with  which,  in  the  gar- 
den below,  he  had  greeted  Mrs.  Ashley. 

"  Ashley,"  he  said  gravely,  "  I 
can't  give  no  signals  to  Moseby,  no- 
how. I  regret,"  he  continued  piously, 
"  1  regret  and  see  the  error  that  the 
South  has  made  in  this  here  unchris- 
tian war." 

Ashley  started  and  fixed  his  blood- 
[26^ 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

shot  eyes  on  Smull,who  immediately 
raised  his  own  to  the  ceiHng  and 
addressed  it  unctuously  :  "  This  here 
unchristian  war  to  disrupt  the  sacred 
union  of  the  States  is  a  offence  against 
God  and  man,  my  young  friend,  and 
I  now  am  brought  to  see,  by  God's 
grace,  the  sin  of  secession  an'  slavery, 
an'  Jefferson  Davis  an'  his  wicked 
ways.  Surely  the  wicked  shall  perish 
and  be  cut  down  like  the  grass  ;  in 
the  morning  it  flourisheth  and  grow- 
eth  up,  in  the  evenin'  it  is  cut  down 
an'  withereth,  my  young  fren'." 

Ashley  had  grown  paler  and  paler ; 
his  fingers  clutched  at  the  bedclothes, 
and  he  watched  SmuU's  increasing 
exaltation  with  a  horror  that  pinched 
every  feature  in  his  face. 

"  No  !  "  bawled  SmuU  :  ''  no  !  no  ! 
I  have  took  the  oath  of  allegiance  to 
these  here  United  States  !  Blessed  is 
the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain 
mercy !  " 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

"  Shut  up  !  "  gasped  Ashley  ;  "  do 
you  want  to  have  the  Yankee  pro- 
vost here  ? " 

Smull  raised  his  hands  and  wept 
on  ;  "  Behold  I  am  utterly  enlight- 
ened !  Blessed  are  the  meek  for 
they  "  — 

"  Stop  !  "  shrieked  Ashley,  start- 
ing up  in  bed. 

Smull  glanced  sharply  at  him, 
then  sat  down  with  a  sigh. 

"  Are  you  going  to  give  me  up  to 
the  provost-marshal  because  you  took 
the  oath  ?  "  quavered  Ashley,  beside 
himself  with  fright  and  fury. 

"No,"  said  Smull,  wagging  his 
double  chin  and  meeting  Ashley's 
glance  squarely ;  "  no,  I  will  not 
bring  the  centurions  for  fear  they 
utterly  destroy  thee  with  the  sword." 

Ashley,  sweating  with  terror,  looked 
at  the  reverend  gentleman  and  won- 
dered whether  he  could  kill  him 
without  undue  disturbance.  That 
i28^ 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

fat  neck  could  not  be  strangled  with 
Ashley's  slender  fingers  ;  the  revolver 
under  the  pillow  was  surer  —  and 
surer  still  to  bring  the  Yankee  soldiers 
pell-mell  into  the  house.  He  had 
been  jealous  of  Smull  when  that 
gentleman  made  his  weekly  call  on 
Mrs.  Ashley.  He,  besotted  as  he 
was,  noticed  the  expression  of  Smull's 
small  eyes  when  Mrs.  Ashley  entered 
the  room,  her  mnocent  heart  filled 
with  plans  for  charities  suggested  by 
the  minister.  Would  the  Reverend 
Laomi  like  to  see  Mrs.  Ashley  a 
real  widow?  Would  he  even  aid 
fate  toward  the  accomplishment  of 
her  widowhood? 

"What  the  hell  made  you  holler 
like  that !"  stammered  Ashley  fiercely. 
"  Damn  you,"  he  added,  "  if  the 
Yankees  had  come  into  this  room, 
you  would  have  left  it  feet  first  an' 
fit  for  a  hole  m  the  ground  !  " 

The  Reverend  Laomi  Smull  looked 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

sadly  at  the  young  man.  There  were 
tears  on  his  fat  cheeks. 

"  YeSj  I  tote  a  gun,"  sneered  Ash- 
ley, tapping  the  pillow  under  his  head. 
"  Don't  be  a  fool.  Hang  out  your 
shirt  and  let  Moseby  come  and  clean 
out  these  Yankees,  for  God's  sake, 
before  they  shoot  me  and  hang  you 
on  my  evidence." 

"  Moseby's  men  can't  face  can- 
non," observed  Smull  with  sudden 
alacrity. 

"  Then  lock  the  cannoniers  in  the 
church  when  Moseby  signals.  You 
can  do  it ;  you  've  got  the  keys, 
have  n't  you  ?  " 

Smull  nodded. 

"  They  '11  come  at  night,  of  course  ; 
you  can  go  and  whine  hymns  in  the 
church  by  special  permit,  and  lock 
the  door  when  the  first  carbine  goes 
oflr." 

"  And  the  bell  on  Sunday  ?  "  in- 
quired Smull :  "  the  clapper 's  gone, 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

the  ropes  are  cut,  and  the  Yankee 
Battery  Captain  would  n't  let  me  ring 
it  nohow." 

"  Never  mind  the  bell.  If  Moseby 
sees  the  shirt  he  '11  attack  by  night, 
unless  he  's  in  force.  If  the  whole 
Confederate  cavalry  has  ridden  around 
Wilson,  then  he  '11  come  by  day  and 
send  the  Yankees  packing,  battery 
or  no  battery.  All  you  've  got  to 
do  is  to  hang  out  that  shirt.  Now 
go  away,  d' you  hear?  " 

Smull  rose  and  walked  softly  to 
the  door. 

"And,"  added  Ashley,  "if  you 
play  tricks  on  me  you  '11  hang  on  my 
evidence." 

Smull  opened  the  door. 

"  And  you  '11  not  get  my  wife  any- 
way, damn  you  !  "  finished  Ashley 
triumphantly  from  the  bed. 

Smull  turned  and  looked  at  him, 
then  went  out,  quietly  closing  the 
door  behind  him. 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  met 
Mrs.  Ashley,  and  he  smirked  and 
opened  his  thick  moist  Hps  to  speak, 
but  the  young  wife's  face  startled  him 
and  he  closed  his  mouth  with  a  snap 
of  surprise. 

"  You  intend  to  betray  my  hus- 
band," she  said  breathlessly. 

"  You  have  been  listening  at  your 
husband's  door,"  he  retorted  savagely. 

She  clenched  her  small  hands : 
"  What  of  it !  With  cowards  and 
traitors  and  hypocrites  as  guests, 
honest  people  need  be  forewarned ! 
Shame  on  you!  Shame  on  your  cloth  ! 
Shame  on  your  oath  of  allegiance  ! 
You  '11  sell  my  husband  to  steal  his 
wife  !  You  '11  break  your  oath  to 
bring  the  rebel  cavalry  down  on  us  !  " 

She  brushed  the  tears  from  her  eyes 
with  both  trembling  hands. 

"  God  knows,"  she  said,  ",I  thought 
I  was  right  to  hide  my  husband,  and 
I  think  so  now.     Yet,  if  he  or  you  be- 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

tray  these  soldiers  I  shall  denounce 
you  both  to  the  first  picket !  " 

"  Madame,"  began  SmuU  in  thick 
persuasive  tones,  "  you  wrong  me —  " 

"  Leave  this  house  !  "  she  said, 
trembling. 

The  Reverend  Laomi  bowed  low, 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  sky,  sighed, 
and  stepped  out  into  the  garden. 
There,  before  he  could  rearrange  his 
expressive  features,  Smith  met  him 
face  to  face  and  returned  the  clergy- 
man's disconcerted  salute  gravely. 

"  One  moment,  my  dear  young 
friend,"  stammered  Smull. 

Smith  wheeled  squarely  in  his 
tracks  and  stood  rigid.  Smull  hes- 
itated, passed  a  fat  tongue  over  his 
lips,  and  weighed  the  chances.  The 
next  moment  he  made  up  his  mind, 
glanced  at  the  door,  saw  Mrs.  Ash- 
ley entering  the  house,  then  leaned 
swiftly  toward  Smith  and  whispered. 

Smith  drew  himself  up  sharply  ;  the 
[^3  [JJ] 


5:2SESE5BSESEECSES2SEHH=HSH5SEaS2SESHSESHS2EEBHSESaS2SHSHSSSH 

SMITH'S     BATTERY 

Reverend  Laomi  Smull  turned  and 
left  the  garden,  head  bowed  on  his 
breast  as  though  in  anguish  of  spirit. 
A  few  minutes  later  he  brought  a 
wash  basket  out  of  his  house  and 
pinned  a  single  shirt  to  the  line  with 
a  wooden  clothespin.  Then  he  ran  to 
the  woods,  as  fast  as  he  could,  and 
squatted  under  a  rock  where  a  tangle 
of  brambles  fell  like  a  curtain  to  screen 
him  from  the  eyes  of  the  impious,  in- 
discreet, and  importunate. 

Smith,  holding  his  sabre  very 
stiffly,  raised  the  bronze  knocker  on 
Mrs.  Ashley's  door  and  rapped  three 
times.  Then  he  loosened  the  chin- 
strap  of  his  forage-cap  ;  drew  off  both 
gauntlets,  folded  them,  and  placed 
them  in  his  belt. 

As  he  waited  for  admittance  he  saw 
the  flag  over  the  porch,  motionless 
in  the  still  air ;  he  heard  the  wild 
bees'  harmony  overhead,  he  heard  the 
rustle  of  a  summer  gown  behind  the 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

door.  But  the  door  did  not  open. 
He  waited.  A  burr  stuck  to  the 
crimson  stripe  on  his  riding-breeches  ; 
he  flicked  it  off  with  his  middle 
finger.  Presently  he  knocked  again, 
once ;  the  door  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Ashley  came  out,  smiling  faintly. 

"  I  hope  you  want  another  cup  of 
tea,"  she  said,  with  the  slightest  ges- 
ture toward  the  table  under  the  mag- 
nolias where  the  two  chairs  till  stood 
as  they  had  left  them  in  the  morning. 

He  attended  her,  cap  in  hand,  to 
the  table  ;  when  she  was  seated,  he 
stood  beside  her. 

"  Is  it  tea.  Captain  Smith  ?  "  she 
asked,  looking  up  at  him. 

He  grew  suddenly  red,  but  did  not 
reply. 

"What  is  it  then?"  she  repeated, 
smiling :  "  not  the;  mere  honour  of 
my  poor  presence  I  am  sure.  But, 
as  a  gallant  officer,  you  must  contra- 
dict me,  Captain  Smith." 
[J5] 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

Fear  whitened  her  lips  that  the 
smile  had  not  left ;  she  faced  him 
with  the  coquetry  of  desperation  ; 
and  the  pathos  of  it  turned  him  sick 
at  heart. 

"  I  brought  the  Bible  to  you," 
he  said  ;  "  it  is  the  one  you  swore 
on  —  the  oath  of  allegiance.  You 
kissed  it." 

She  inclined  her  throbbing  head 
and  took  it. 

"  Open  it,"  he  said. 

She  obeyed.  The  wet  bit  of 
folded  paper  caught  her  eyes  and 
she  held  it  out  to  Smith,  saying : 
"  This  is  yours." 

"  No  !  "  he  said,  "  it  is  yours." 

She  glanced  swiftly  up  at  him, 
caught  her  breath,  and  sat  motion- 
less, the  paper  clutched  nervously  in 
her  fingers. 

"  Read  it,"  he  said  in  a  scarcely 
audible  voice. 

She    opened   it ;    one   glance   was 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

enough.  Then  she  dropped  it  on 
the  grass  at  her  feet.  Presently  he 
stooped  and  recovered  it. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  obeying  his  eyes' 
command,  "my  husband  is  not  dead. 
What  of  it?" 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"  A  deserter." 

"  Yes." 

"  A  traitor." 

"Yes." 

Smith  walked  to  the  gate,  looked 
down  the  road  toward  the  church 
where  the  artillery  pickets  paraded, 
naked  sabres  drawn.  Then  he  came 
back. 

"You  are  under  arrest,"  he  said, 
looking  at  the  ground. 

She  turned  a  bloodless  face  to  his, 
and  raised  one  slender  hand  to  her 
forehead. 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  loyalty  ?  "  she 
stammered. 

[J7] 


SESES2S2S25HSHSS5ESE5HS2SHSESHSESE55SSSHSaSHSHSES25HSHHHSESH 

SMITH'S     BATTERY 

He  turned  his  back  sharply. 

"  My  loyalty  ?  "  she  repeated  as 
though  dazed. 

He  was  silent. 

"  But — but  you  administered  the 
oath  —  you  saw  me  kiss  the  Book," 
she  persisted  with  childlike  insistence. 

"  And  your  husband  ?  "  he  asked, 
turning  abruptly. 

"  What  of  him  !  "  she  cried,  re- 
volted;  "I  am  myself!  —  I  have  a 
brain  and  a  body  and  a  soul  of  my 
own  !  Do  you  think  I  would  damn 
my  soul  with  a  kiss  on  that  Book? 
Do  you  think  if  I  were  a  Rebel  I 
would  deny  it  to  save  my  body  ?  " 

"  You  have  denied  it,"  he  said. 
He  took  the  Bible  from  her  hand 
and  opened  it  at  a  marked  page  : 

"  By  their  acts  ye  shall  know 
them,"  he  read  steadily,  then  closed 
the  Book  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 
Their  eyes  met ;  the  anguish  in  his 
bore  a  message  to  her  that  pleaded 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

for  forgiveness  for  what  he  was  about 
to  do. 

"Not  that!  — "  she  stammered, 
half  rising  from  the  chair. 

He  turned,  drew  out  a  handker- 
chief, and  signalled  the  artillery 
picket,  flag-fashion.  Then,  before 
he  could  prevent  it,  she  was  on  her 
knees  to  him,  there  on  the  grass, 
her  white  face  lifted,  speechless  with 
horror. 

"  For  God's  sake  don't  do  that,'* 
he  said,  trying  to  raise  her,  but  she 
clung  to  him  and  pushed  him  toward 
the  gate  murmuring,  "  Go  !  Go  !  " 

Furious  at  the  agony  he  was  caus- 
ing her,  tortured  by  the  agony  it  cost 
him,  he  held  her  firmly  and  told  her 
to  be  silent. 

"  Your  husband  is  hidden  in  that 
house,"  he  said :  "  he  is  attempting 
to  add  to  his  treason  by  communi- 
cating with  the  Rebel  cavalry.  He 
tried  to  force  your  own  pastor,  at  the 
[JP] 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

point  of  a  pistol,  to  hang  a  red  shirt 
on  his  clothes-Hne,  which  means  'at- 
tack '  !  The  pastor  is  a  good  man ; 
he  had  taken  the  oath;  such  villainy 
horrified  him.  To  save  his  life  in 
the  room  above  he  consented  to  hang 
out  a  signal,  but  the  signal  he  hung 
out  is  a  white  shirt  which  means  '  re- 
treat.'    There  it  is  !  " 

He  pointed  angrily  at  the  white 
shirt  hanging  on  the  minister's 
clothes-line  down  the  road. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  let  me  do  my 
duty." 

He  took  her  by  the  wrists,  and 
looked  straight  into  her  eyes, 
adding: 

"  I  'd  rather  be  lying  dead  at  your 
feet  than  doing  what  I  'vegot  to  do." 

"  But,"  she  cried,  struggling  to 
free  herself,  "  but  the  signal  !  Can't 
you  understand  ?  The  man  lied  ! 
He  lied!  He  lied!  The  white  rag 
means  '  attack '  !  " 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

Stupefied,  he  dropped  her  wrists 
and  stepped  back. 

"  Run  to  your  battery  ! "  she 
wailed  ;  "  run  !  run  !  Can't  you 
understand !  They  're  coming  ! 
They'll  kill  you!" 

Scarcely  had  she  spoken  when  a 
rifle-shot  rang  out  from  the  race- 
track, another,  another,  then  a  scat- 
tered volley. 

An  artillery  guard  approached  the 
garden,  halted,  turned,  then  scattered 
pell  mell  toward  the  church.  The 
next  moment  Smith  was  running  for 
his  battery  and  shouting  to  Steele, 
who,  mounted,  cantered  among  the 
grave-stones,  and  hurried  the  panic- 
stricken  cannoniers  to  their  stations. 

A  frightful  tumult  arose  from  the 
race-track,  where  the  "  Dead  Rab- 
bits," taken  utterly  unprepared  by  a 
cloud  of  Confederate  cavalry,  ran  like 
rabbits  very  much  alive.  Through 
them  galloped  the  Confederate  riders, 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

heavy  sabres  dripping  to  the  hilt. 
The  Union  cavalry  at  the  water-tank 
was  overwhelmed;  the  grey-jacketed 
troopers,  shouting  their  "  Hi  !  yi ! 
yi !  yi ! "  wheeled  into  the  village, 
shaking  a  thousand  glittering  sabres  ; 
but  here  they  met  a  blast  of  canister 
from  the  churchyard  that  sent  them 
reeling  and  tumbling  back  to  the 
race-track,  now  swarming  with  the 
entire  Confederate  division. 

Smith's  battery,  limbered  up,  filed 
out  of  the  churchyard,  while  Smith, 
looking  annihilation  in  the  face,  saw 
the  last  of  the  "  Dead  Rabbits  "  leg- 
ging it  for  the  woods.  He  turned 
with  a  groan  to  Steele,  and  Steele  said, 
"  Ride  for  it,  if  we  're  to  save  the  guns  ! 
The  whole  rebel  cavalry  is  here !  " 

Bullets  began  to  sing  into  the 
bewildered  column ;  the  cannoniers 
struggled  with  the  horses  and  swore. 
Suddenly  a  shell  fell  squarely  on  the 
church  tower  and  burst. 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

"  They  've  got  artillery  ;  we  're 
goners!"   shouted  a  teamster. 

Smith  drew  his  sabre  and  raised  it 
high  above  his  head.  "  Battery  for- 
ward!" he  cried:  "by  the  left  flank! 
Gallop  !  " 

"  God  help  us  !  "  gasped  Steele. 

Team  after  team  dashed  into  posi- 
tion, dropped  their  guns,  and  wheeled 
into  station  behind.  Smith  dis- 
mounted and,  standing  by  gun  No. 
I,  began  to  make  calculations,  pad 
and  pencil  in  hand.  Presently  he 
gave  his  orders ;  a  shrapnel  shell  was 
rammed  home,  the  screw  twisted  to 
the  elevation,  then : 

^^Fire!" 

A  lance  of  flame  pierced  the  white 
cloud,  the  shell  soared  away  toward 
the  race-track  and  burst  beyond  it. 
Before  gun  No.  2  could  be  fired,  a 
roar  broke  from  the  wooded  heights 
close  to  the  left,  and  a  flight  of  shells 
struck    Smith's    battery    amidships. 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

For  a  moment  it  was  horrible; 
teams  were  butchered,  guns  dis- 
mounted, cannoniers  torn  to  shreds. 

"  Steele,  bring  that  limber  up  ! " 
shouted  Smith  ;  "  they  shan't  have 
every  gun  ! " 

Steele  seized  the  bridle ;  the  ter- 
rified animals  lashed  out  right  and 
left,  threatening  to  kick  the  traces  to 
bits.  A  cannonier  tried  to  hook  up 
the  gun  but  fell  dead  under  the  lim- 
ber. A  caisson  blew  up,  hurling  a 
dozen  men  into  the  air  and  stunning 
as  many  more.  With  blackened 
face  and  jacket,  Steele  reeled  toward 
the  gun  again  but  fell  on  his  face  in 
the  long  grass. 

"  Bring  off  that  gun  !  "  shouted 
Smith,  standing  straight  up  in  his 
stirrups.  Crack !  went  the  wheel, 
and  the  gun  sank  to  its  axle.  Then 
Smith  sprang  from  his  horse  and 
helped  the  gunners  take  the  spare 
wheel  from  the  caisson,  roll  it  up 
[4^1 


SHSesaSPSPSHSBSSHHSHSeSaSBSaSBSaSBSESgSaSBSBBBSB'Ti'Tr-.aeSBSeBE 

SMITH'S    BATTERY 

over  the  grass,  and  mount  it  on  the 
broken  pieces.  Smith  hammered  it 
on  the  axle,  then  drove  home  the 
linchpin,  brushed  the  sweat  from  his 
half-blinded  eyes,  and  looked  around. 

What  he  saw  was  the  wreck  of 
three  guns  and  caissons,  the  blackened 
fragments  of  gunners  and  horses,  and 
a  mess  of  trampled  grass ;  and  be- 
yond, between  his  single  gun  and 
the  race-track,  a  long  gray  line,  glit- 
tering with  naked  steel,  sweeping 
straight  upon  him. 

Of  his  battery  there  remained  three 
men  with  him  ;  the  others  were  lying 
dead  around  Steele  or  stunned  and 
mangled  somewhere  in  the  rank  grass. 

Scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  did, 
he  helped  his  three  gunners  hook 
the  gun  to  the  limber,  then  mounted 
and  followed  the  gun  back  into  the 
village  through  a  constantly  increas- 
ing rain  of  bullets.  One  of  his  men 
fell  to  the  earth. 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

"  I  guess  the  whole  Rebel  army  's 
here,"  he  said,  as  though  speaking  to 
himself:  "I  guess  I'd  better  get 
this  gun  to  the  Junction  damn  quick." 

In  front  of  Mrs.  Ashley's  cottage, 
as  the  cannon  passed,  Ashley,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  fired  from  the  window 
point-blank  at  a  cannonier  and  shot 
him  out  of  his  saddle.  The  dead 
man's  clutch  on  the  team's  bridle 
brought  the  gun  to  a  halt,  and  the 
remaining  gunner  sprang  from  his 
saddle  with  an  oath  and  dashed  into 
the  house,  sabre  unsheathed. 

"  Come  back  !  "  shouted  Smith, 
reining  in  ;  "  man  !  man  !  we  've  got 
to  save  the  gun  !  Come  back  !  " 
He  climbed  from  his  own  saddle 
into  the  saddle  of  the  nigh  battery 
horse  and  seized  the  heavy  rawhide. 
A  bullet  broke  his  wrist  as  he  lifted 
it. 

There  was  a  struggle  going  on  in 
the  room  from  which  Ashley  had 
[46^ 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

firedj  but  Smith  did  not  see  it;  his 
head  swam  and  he  looked  at  his  gun 
with  sick  eyes.  For  a  second  all 
round  grew  black,  then  he  found 
himself  rising  from  his  horse's  neck, 
and,  in  the  road  beside  him,  he  saw 
Mrs.  Ashley  and  'Biah,  holding  the 
bridles  he  had  dropped. 

"  They  Ve  hit  me  ;  I  can't  guide 
the  team,"  he  said  vacantly.  "  I  've 
got  to  save  the  gun,  you  know." 

His  eyes  fell  on  the  dead  body  of 
her  husband,  lying  where  it  had  been 
flung  from  the  window  among  the 
flowers  below. 

"He's  dead,"  said  Mrs.  Ashley. 
"  I  can't  stay.  Don't  leave  me  !  I 
can  sit  a  horse  if  you  will  let  me.  I  '11 
go  with  you.     Don't  refuse  me  !  " 

She  sprang  into  the  limber  seat  and 
clutched  the  railing  with  both  hands  ; 
'Biah  followed  with  a  howl  of  terror. 
There  was  a  whip  there ;  she  swung 
the  heavy  rawhide  and,  seizing  a 
l47] 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

horse  by  the  mane,  drew  herself  for- 
ward to  the  saddle,  calling:  "  Here 
they  come  !     Gallop  !  gallop  !  " 

With  a  plunge  the  six  horses  leaped 
forward,  and  tore  down  the  road, 
Smith  swaying  in  his  saddle  with  a 
broken  arm,  the  young  girl,  enveloped 
in  a  torrent  of  dust,  riding  the  nigh 
horse  of  the  wheel-team,  limber  and 
gun  swaying  and  crashing  on  behind, 
'Biah  bouncing,  jouncing,  and  howl- 
ing intermittently. 

"  Guide  !  "  called  Smith  faintly : 
"  I  can't." 

She  seized  the  bridles  and  lashed 
the  horses.     'Biah  shrieked. 

"  There  are  soldiers  ahead  !  "  she 
cried  to  him,  —  "  Rebel  infantry  ! 
They  're  going  to  fire  !  " 

"  Drive  over  them  !  "  he  gasped. 

With  a  rumble,  a  roar,  and  a  tear- 
ing crash,  the  train  broke  into  the 
shouting  mass  of  men,  the  scurrying 
wheels  crunched  on  something,  there 
[48^ 


SMITH'S    BATTERY 

came  a  flash  of  rifles,  and  Smith  stag- 
gered. Before  his  eyes  all  was  a 
blur;  he  still  heard  the  hoofs  clink, 
the  chains  clash,  the  wheels  thump 
and  pound.  Gun  and  limber  struck 
an  opposing  body  and  leaped  into  the 
air  ;  Smith's  glazing  eyes  opened  ;  he 
clung  to  his  mount  and  attempted  to 
turn. 

He  tried  to  say :  "Is  the  wheel 
broken  ?  " 

She  could  not  reply,  nor  did  she 
dare  turn  her  head  to  that  heap  in 
the  road  already  far  behind.  Terror 
sealed  her  lips — had  sealed  her  lips 
when,  through  the  dust  ahead,  she 
saw  Smull,  almost  under  the  head 
team's  hoofs,  start  to  run,  then  go 
down  to  death  beneath  her  very  eyes. 

Six  wild  horses,  a  runaway  limber 
and  gun,  two  half-dead  creatures 
hanging  to  the  saddles,  and  a  frantic 
darkey  on  the  limber,  —  that  was  all 


SMITH'S     BATTERY 

of  Smith's  battery  that  tore  into  the 
Junction  to  the  horror  of  Wilson  and 
the  scandal  of  the  rank  and  file. 

It  all  happened  years  ago ;  too 
long  ago  to  fix  the  year  or  the  date. 
Perhaps  the  incident  is  recorded  in 
the  archives  of  the  Nation.  Perhaps 
not.  At  all  events,  when  they  had 
picked  some  stray  bullets  out  of 
Smith  and  set  his  wrist  in  splints,  he 
went  North  on  furlough. 

I  think  Mrs.  Ashley  went  with 
him;  and  'Biah,  being  of  no  account, 
toted  their  luggage  and  breathed 
hard. 


Iso] 


An  International 
Affair 


"...    Brown-bear  clam'  de  ole  fence  rail, 
Rabbit  holler  5   '  Whar  yoh  tail  ? '    ..." 

Banjo  Song. 

I 

WHEN  the  gunboats  entered 
Sandy  River,  Cleland's 
regiment  was  ordered  to 
garrison  and  reconstruct  the  forts  at 
the  Landing,  evacuated  by  the  Con- 
federate troops  as  soon  as  the  gun- 
boats crossed  the  bar. 

The  gunboats  tossed  a  few  shells 
after  the  leisurely  retreating  Con- 
federates, then  dropped  anchor  below 
the  Landing,  and  waited  for  some- 
thing to  turn  up.  A  week  later  they 
steamed  out  of  the  river,  promptly 
stuck  on  the  bar,  churned  and 
thrashed  and  whistled  and  signalled, 


AN     INTERNATIONAL     AFFAIR 

and  finally  slid  out  into  blue  water 
where  a  blockade  runner  tempted 
them  into  a  chase  that  contributed 
to  the  amusement  of  the  Southern 
Confederacy. 

By  Thanksgiving  time,  Cleland's 
regiment  had  finished  the  forts  at 
Sandy  Landing.  Cleland  did  it 
because  he  was  told  to,  not  because 
either  forts  or  town  were  of  the 
slightest  military  value  to  anybody. 
The  Landing  itself  was  a  skunk- 
haunted  village,  utterly  unimportant 
as  supply  depot,  strategical  pivot,  or 
a  menace  to  navigation.  It  was  a 
key  to  nothing ;  its  single  railway 
led  nowhere,  its  whiskey  was  illegal, 
illimitable,  and  atrocious. 

Cleland's  report  embodied  all  of 
this.  He  was  ordered  to  hold  his 
ground,  establish  semaphores,  and 
plant  torpedoes.  So  he  built  his 
semaphores  as  directed,  planted  tor- 
pedoes, and  reported.  Twenty-four 
[5^1 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

hours  later  orders  came  to  go  into 
winter-quarters.  Then  he  was  noti- 
fied that  he  was  to  be  reinforced,  so 
he  built  barracks  for  two  more  regi- 
ments, as  directed,  and  wondered 
what  on  earth  was  coming.  Nothing 
came  except  the  two  regiments ;  one 
arrived  on  the  first  of  December, 
by  rail,  —  an  Irish  regiment;  —  the 
other  turned  up  a  week  later  in  two 
cattle  trains,  band  playing  madly 
from  the  caboose.  It  was  a  German 
regiment  full  of  strange  oaths  —  and 
aromas. 

Now  Cleland  was  enlightened  ;  he 
understood  that  the  Landing  was  to 
be  used  as  a  species  of  cage  for  these 
two  foreign  regiments,  raised.  Heaven 
knows  where,  and  destined  to  prove 
a  nuisance  to  any  army  that  harboured 
them.  The  Irish  possessed  an  ap- 
palling record  of  pillage,  bravery, 
and  insubordination.  The  German 
regiment,  raised  "  to  march  mit  Sie- 
[5J] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL     AFFAIR 

gel,"  had  an  unbroken  record  of 
flight  to  its  discredit.  It  had  run  at 
Grey's  Ford,  at  Crystal  Hill,  at  Yel- 
low Bank,  and  at  Cypress-Court- 
House.  It  fled  cheerfully,  morning, 
noon,  and  night;  its  band  stampeded 
naively  and  naturally ;  it  always  fol- 
lowed its  band,  adored  by  all  ;  and 
the  regiment  bore  no  rancour  when 
scourged  in  general  orders.  Fall- 
bach  was  its  colonel,  —  known  to 
the  sarcastic  and  uninstructed  as 
Fallback,  —  a  rosy,  short-winded, 
peaceful  Teuton,  who  ran  with  his 
regiment  every  time,  and  always 
accepted  censure  with  jocular  res- 
ignation. 

"  Poys  will  pe  poys,  ain't  it  ?  " 
he  would  say  with  a  shrug ;  "  Der 
band  iss  a  fine  band  alretty.  Dot 
trombone  iss  timid,  und  der  poys 
dey  follow  der  trombone." 

When  Cleland  understood  that 
the    authorities    had   rid    themselves 


S2SESESSSaSESESBSSS£SSSESSSeSSSSSSSBSSSSSESE5SSSSSSSSSSaS3SZ 

AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

of  the  two  regiments  by  interring 
them  at  Sandy  Landing,  he  wrote  a 
respectful  protest,  was  snubbed  and 
ordered  to  begin  housekeeping  for 
the  winter,  which  meant  that  his 
regiment  was  now  on  police  duty, 
stationed  at  the  Landing  to  keep 
the  peace  between  the  Germans  and 
their   Irish  neighbours. 

Trouble  began  promptly  ;  Ban- 
non,  colonel  of  the  ist  Irish,  met 
Fallbach  of  the  ist  Jagers,  and 
mispronounced  his  name  with  an 
emphasis  unmistakable.  An  hour 
later  the  two  regiments  knew  the  war 
was  on  and  made  preparations  ac- 
cordingly. Hogan  of  the  loth  com- 
pany, crossing  the  street,  hustled 
Franz  Bummel  of  the  Jagers  and 
called  him  a  "  dootch  puddy-fud  I  " 

Quinn,    listening    to    the    Jagers' 

band  concert  that  afternoon,  whistled 

"  Doolan's     Wake,"    and     imitated 

Fritz     Klein's     piccolo,    aided    and 

[SS] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

abetted  by  Phelan  and  McCue. 
That  night  there  were  three  scuffles 
and  a  fight,  and  the  provost-marshal 
had  his  work  cut  out  for  him. 

Little  by  Httle  the  two  regiments 
were  installed  in  distant  sections  of 
the  town.  Cleland  dealt  justice  un- 
tempered  with  mercy,  and  the  rival 
regiments  understood  that  their  war- 
fare would  have  to  be  carried  on  by 
stealth. 

When  Phelan,  Quinn,  Hogan,  and 
McCue  were  released  from  the  guard- 
house, they  rejoiced  with  their  com- 
rades of  the  loth  company,  and 
prepared  future  calamity  for  the 
Jagers.  But  Fate  was  against  them. 
Their  regimental  fetish,  a  strong 
young  goat,  disappeared,  and  that 
night  the  Jagers  were  reported  to 
have  revelled  in  a  strangely  sugges- 
tive  stew. 

A  day  or  two  later,  Quinn,  fishing 
for  suckers  in  the  Sandy  River,  was 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

assaulted  by  three  Jagers,  his  fish- 
pole  and  three  fish  confiscated,  and 
he  himself  ducked  amid  grunts  of 
universal  satisfaction. 

The  fury  of  the  loth  company 
passed  all  bounds  when  Quinn  was 
relegated  to  the  guard-house  for  con- 
duct unbecoming  a  soldier  ;  but  the 
Teutons  never  strayed  from  their 
barracks  except  in  force,  and,  as 
night  leave  was  forbidden  both  regi- 
ments, the  loth  company  hesitated 
to  inaugurate  riot  by  daylight. 

Quinn,  squatting  in  the  guard- 
house, found  plenty  of  leisure  to 
hatch  revenge.  He  did  not  waste 
thought  on  mere  individual  schemes 
for  assault  and  battery;  he  meditated 
a  master  stroke,  a  blow  at  the  entire 
regiment  calculated  to  tear  every 
Teuton  bosom.  The  two  objects 
most  cherished  by  the  Jagers  were 
their  cat  and  a  disreputable  negro 
who  cooked  for  the  colonel.  How 
[57] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL     AFFAIR 

to  combine  damage  to  these  cen- 
tres of  Teutonic  affection  occupied 
Quinn's  waking  hours.  To  kidnap 
the  cat ;  that  was  not  enough,  —  the 
Teutons  must  be  beguiled  into  eat- 
ing their  cat  —  and  liking  it  too. 
How  ?  Quinn  sucked  at  an  empty 
pipe  and  brooded.  Bribe  the  ne- 
gro Cassius,  first  to  kidnap  the  cat, 
then  to  cook  it?  Quinn  writhed 
maliciously  at  the  prospect;  he  hated 
Tom,  the  black  and  white  cat  who 
sang  every  night  on  the  Jagers'  bar- 
rack roof — sang  to  each  individual  star 
in  the  firmament  to  the  indignation  of 
every  Irishman  in  Sandy  Landing. 

When  Quinn  emerged  from  the 
guard-house  he  took  council  with 
Phelan  and  McCue  ;  and  that  even- 
ing Hogan  was  despatched  to  tempt 
Cassius  with  promises  and  a  little 
cash. 

The  aflfair  was  easier  than  Hogan 
had  dared   hope ;    Cassius  took  the 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

cash  and  promised  to  betray,  and 
Hogan,  lips  compressed,  to  stifle  all 
outward  mirthful  symptoms,  went 
back  to  the  barracks  where  Quinn, 
Phelan,  and  McCue  sat  waiting  in 
pessimistic  silence. 

"  He'll  not  kill  the  cat,"  said 
Hogan,  "he'll  fetch  ut  in  a  bag  to 
the  shanty  foreninst  the  hill, —  d'ye 
mind  the  hut,  McCue  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  McCue  impressively. 

"Thin  be  aisy,"  continued  Ho- 
gan; "we'll  skin  ut  an'  co-ook  ut 
an'  the  naygur  can  take  the  stew  to 
thot  Dootch  runaway  sodger.  Fall- 
back, bad  cess  to  him  an'  his  !  Pass 
th*  potheen,  McCue." 

"  Sure  there  's  not  stew  in  wan  cat 
for  all !  "  objected  Phelan. 

"There  is!  There  is,"  said  Quinn: 
"  there  's  cats  in  town  to  be  had  for 
the  askin',  an'  nary  a  Dootchman  will 
starve  !  Usha  !  but  they  '11  be  crazy, 
th'  omadhouns  ! " 

[5P] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL     AFFAIR 

"'Twill  choke  them,"  said  Phelan. 

"  Did  they  choke  wid  the  goat 
they  shtole  ? "  demanded  McCue 
angrily. 

"  I  met  Bummel  an'  Klein,"  con- 
tinued Quinn  :  "  '  Sure,*  I  sez,  *  't  is 
dhirty  thricks  ye  play  on  the  Irish.' 
'  Phwat  's  that  ? '  sez  Klein.  '  Ye 
ate  our  goat,'  sez  I.  Wid  that 
they  grinned  an'  me  phist  hurrt 
wid  the  timptayshun  of  Bummel's 
nose. 

"  *  Sure,'  sez  I,  '  't  is  frinds  we 
should  be  ! '  *  Sorra  th'  day  ! '  sez 
Klein.  '  Phwy  not  ?  '  sez  I.  'Ye 
hate  us  an'  bate  us,'  sez  Klein ;  M  '11 
not  thrust  ye,  Mike  Quinn.'  '  Take 
me  hand,'  sez  I,  extindin'  me  fingers; 
*  wan  touch  of  nature,  me  lad  !  'T  is 
a  crool  war  entirely,  an*  it 's  frinds 
we  '11  be,  an'  no  favour  ! '  '  Prove  ut,' 
sez  he.  *  I  wuU,'  sez  I,  '  an'  be  th' 
same  token  't  is  huntin*  we  go  this 
day  week,  so  look  fur  a  Christmas 
[60] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL     AFFAIR 

dinner  to  shame  the  Pope's  cook.' 
'A  dinner,'  sez  he,  *  wid  th'  town 
betchune  us  ! '  *  Ye  '11  dine  wid  us, 
yet,'  sez  I.  *  An'  how,'  sez  he,  a 
lickln'  the  chops  av  him.  '  Whin 
ye  dine  wid  the  Irish  ye  should  have 
a  long  spoon,'  sez  I,  laughin'  friendly 
like.  '  We  '11  sind  ye  a  shtew,  me 
b'y,  if  God  sinds  us  the  rabbits.' 
Thin,"  continued  Quinn,  "we  parrted 
genteel ;  an'  they  '11  hear  we  have 
lave  to  hunt  on  Christmas  day  — 
musha,  bad  luck  to  th'  Dootch  scuts  ! 
—  't  is  cats  they  '11  be  eatin'  this 
blessed  hour  come  Christmas,  an' 
may  the  howly  saints  sind  them  the 
black  cramp  of  Drumgoole!  " 

II 

Christmas  eve,  while  Hogan  and 
Phelan  lay  slumbering,  and  Quinn 
and  McCue  walked  their  rounds, 
gloating  over  revenge,  Cassius  the  dis- 


AN     INTERNATIONAL     AFFAIR 

reputablesat  in  the  kitchenof  the  Jager 
barracks  counting  the  advance  pay- 
ment of  cash  received  from  Hogan, 
and  leering  at  the  black  and  white 
tom-cat  who  dosed  peacefully  by  the 
dying  fire. 

"  Pore  ole  Tom,"  muttered  Cas- 
sius  guiltily,  "  hit 's  gwinter  s'prise 
dishyere  kitty.  'Spec  ole  Tom  gwin- 
ter git  riled." 

The  cat  opened  its  yellow  eyes. 

"  Gwinter  s'prise  ole  Tom,"  re- 
peated Cassius,  compassionately  purs- 
ing up  his  lips. 

The  cat  began  to  purr. 

"  Pore  ole  Tom,"  sighed  the 
darkey,  tremulous  with  remorse. 

The  cat  rose  and  began  to  march 
around,  purring  and  hoisting  an  in- 
terrogative tail. 

Cassius  continued  to  bemoan 
Tom's  fate  and  recount  the  money 
until  he  had  hardened  his  heart  suffi- 
ciently.      Finally    he    pocketed    the 


SESHS2S2SESeS2SH3BSHSHSHSE32S2SHSHS2SeSE5HSii3SS25E5EHESHSESE 

AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

coins,  wiped  his  eyes,  and  approached 
the  cat  with  seductive  caution.  Tom 
permitted  caresses,  courted  further  en- 
dearments, and  suffered  himself  to  be 
seized  and  dropped  into  a  potato  sack. 
But,  once  imprisoned,  he  scrambled 
and  squalled  and  clawed  until  Cassius, 
unable  to  bear  the  sight  and  sound  of 
Thomas's  distress,  deposited  the  sack 
in  the  pantry  and  fled  from  the  bar- 
racks to  the  street. 

Guilt  weighed  heavily  on  the 
darkey's  soul  ;  he  shuffled  along, 
battling  with  conscience,  trying  to 
think  of  some  compromise  to  save 
the  cat  and  his  money  at  the  same 
time.  Moonlight  flooded  hill  and 
valley;  he  heard  the  sentries  calling 
from  post  to  post,  the  stir  of  the 
horses  in  the  artillery  stables  across 
the  square,  the  creaking  of  leafless 
branches  overhead.  He  went  around 
to  the  chicken  coop ;  he  often  went 
there  to  enjoy  the  thrill  of   a  temp- 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

tation  that  he  dared  not  succumb  to, 
also  to  keep  stray  cats  from  doing 
murder  on  their  own  account.  For, 
though  he  dared  not  steal  a  single 
chicken,  he  could  at  least  have  the 
bitter  pleasure  of  foiling  the  feline 
marauders  of  Sandy  Landing.  This 
he  was  accustomed  to  do  with  a  tin 
box,  placed  on  its  side,  a  trip-stick,  a 
string,  and  a  bit  of  bone  for  bait. 
Cat  after  cat  he  had  trapped  and  com- 
mitted to  the  depths  of  Sandy  River, 
highly  commended  by  his  colonel 
and  the  rank  and  file  of  the  Jagers. 
Now,  as  he  stepped  softly  around 
the  corner,  his  eyes  fell  on  a  black 
and  white  object,  stealing  toward  the 
window  where  the  long  tin  box  stood 
temptingly  baited.  The  next  instant 
the  trip-stick  clicked,  the  weighted 
box-lid  fell  and  snapped,  and  Cassius 
seized  the  box  with  a  chuckle  of 
triumph. 

"  Cat !  cat ! "  he  repeated,  address- 


5HS2S2S2SSHESES?jiasasasas2555a5ESaSHSESasa5ESESES25ES2SESE5a 

AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

ing  the  frantic  inmate  of  the  box, 
"doan*  yoh  count  yoh  chickens  'fore 
dey  's  hatched  !  —  " 

Cassius  stopped  short,  pulsating 
with  a  new  idea.  Why  sacrifice  Tom 
when  here  was  a  victim  ready  at  hand, 
doubtless  provided  by  Providence  in 
the  nick  of  time  to  save  a  poor  darkey 
from  treachery  ?  And  it  was  a  kind 
of  treachery  that  even  Cassius  found 
uncongenial. 

"  Pit-a-pat !  Pit-a-pat !  "  mocked 
Cassius  derisively  listening  to  the 
manoeuvres  of  the  imprisoned  victim; 
"  Stop  that  scratchin'  on  de  box  !  He! 
He  !  He !  I  'se  gwineter  let  ole  Tom 
outen  de  bag, — pore  ole  Tom  !  Dish- 
yere  nigger  ain't  no  Judas  !  Lan's 
sakes  !  —  that  ole  cat  smell  kinder 
funny  ! " 

He    wrinkled    his    nose,    sniffed, 

turned  a  pair  of  startled  eyes  on   the 

big  box  under  his  arm,  then  a   sickly 

smile  of  intelligence  spread  over  his 

[5]  [^5] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

face  and  he  placed  the  box  gently  on 
the  ground. 

"  Had  mah  s'picions  'bout  dat 
black  an'  white  kitty-cat,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

The  animal  inside  scratched  and 
writhed  and  scrambled. 

"  Lan's  sake  !  "  chuckled  Cassius, 
grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  "  'spec  dat 
ole  pole-cat  gwine  twiss  he  tail  off 'n 
'bout  two-free  minutes  !  Yah  !  yah  ! 
—  he!  he!  yiah  —  ho!" 

And  as  he  entered  the  servants' 
quarters  he  smote  his  knees  and  shook 
his  head,  and  laughed  and  laughed 
and  laughed. 

About  midnight  he  took  his  banjo 
from  the  nail,  thumbed  it,  and  began 
to  croon  to  himself: 


Bob-cat  he  caynt  wag  he  tail  — 
Ain  got  no  tail  foh  to  wag  ! 
Brown-bear  clam'  de  ole  fence  rail. 
Rabbit  holler j  "  Whar  yoh  tail  ?  " 

[66] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

Bob-cat  larf  like  he  gwinter  bus'; 

Pole-cat  stop  for  to  see  de  fuss, 

De  bob-cat  scoot,  de  bear  turn  pale, 

An'  de  rabbit  he  skip  froo  de  ole  fence  rail. 

**Efyoh  wanter  see  a  tail,"   sez  de  pole-cat; 

•'  see  ! 
*•  Mah  tail 's  long  'nuff  fob  mahfolks  an'  me  !  " 

III 

About  three  o'clock  on  Christmas 
afternoon,  Hogan's  rifle  exploded 
prematurely  and  killed  a  rabbit.  The 
intense  astonishment  of  McCue, 
Quinn,  and  Phelan  nerved  Hoganfor 
more  glory,  and  he  fired  at  every 
tuft  of  hill-weed  until  his  cartridges 
were  gone,  and  his  temper  too. 

"Bad  cess  to  me  goon !  "  he  shouted, 
"  't  is  twisted  it  do  be,  an'  I  '11  thank 
ye  for  th'  loan  avyere  piece,  McCue." 

"G'wan,"  said  McCue,  "'til  I 
show  ye  a  thrick  !  "  —  and  he  blazed 
away  at  a  rapidly  vanishing  cotton- 
tail and  missed.     Occasionally,  firing 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

by  volleys,  they  scored  a  rabbit  to 
four  rifles,  and,  at  sunset,  McCue 
spread  out  a  dozen  or  so  cotton-tails 
on  the  newly  fallen  snow  before  the 
door  of  the  hill  shanty.  Phelan 
wiped  his  brow  with  the  back  of  his 
fist. 

"  Phwere  's  th'  naygur  ?  "  he  de- 
manded. 

Hogan  looked  at  his  watch  and 
began  to  swear,  just  as  Cassius  ap- 
peared over  the  hilltop,  a  tin  box 
under  his  arm,  and  on  his  face  a 
smile  of  confidence. 

"  Have  ye  th*  ould  Tom  ? "  de- 
manded Quinn,  as  Cassius  shuffled 
up  and,  depositing  the  tin  box  on  the 
doorstep,  looked  cheerfully  around. 

"  Evenin',  gemmen,  evenin',"  said 
Cassius,  licking  his  lips  and  leaning 
down  to  pinch  the  fat  rabbits  lying 
in  a  row ;  "  Kinder  cold  dishyere 
Chris'mus,  gemmen.  'Spec  we  gwin- 
ter  'sperience  moh  snow  —  " 
[6S] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL     AFFAIR 

"Have  ye  the  cat?"  repeated 
Quinn    sternly. 

"'Cose  I  has,"  said  Cassius  in- 
dignantly, "  an'  I  'se  come  foh  de 
cash — " 

"  Phwat  *s  that !  "  snarled  Hogan. 

"  Hould  a  bit !  "  interposed  Qainn  ; 
"  is  the  torn  in  the  box  now  ?  " 

"  'Cose  he  is,"  repeated  Cassius ; 
"  yaas,  sah,  dasser  mighty  fine  kitty, 
dat  is  !  Hit  ain't  no  or'nary  cat,  hit 
ain't,  —  no  sah.  Dasser  pole-cat, 
sah,    dat  is  !  " 

"  'Tis  a  Dootch  cat !  "  said  Phelan. 

"  Sure  Poles  is  Dootch,  too," 
observed  McCue ,  "  Phwat  are  ye 
waitin'  for  I  dunno  ? "  he  added, 
scowling  at  the   darkey. 

"  I  'se  lingerin'  foh  mah  cash,"  said 
Cassius. 

"  G'  wan  !  "  said  Phelan  briefly. 

Cassius  turned  an  injured  face  from 
one  to  the  other.  There  was  a  hostile 
silence.       Phelan    produced   a   flour 


AN     INTERNATIONAL     AFFAIR 

sack  and  threw  the  rabbits  into  it, 
one   by   one. 

"'Scuse  me,  gemmen,"  began  Cas- 
sius,  —  when  an  exclamation  from 
Quinn  silenced  him  and  drew  the 
attention  of  all  to  a  black-and-white 
object  advancing  across  the  snow 
toward  the  shanty. 

"  Lan's  sake  !  "  muttered  Cassius, 
"  pole-cat  in  de  box  gwineter  draw  all 
de  pole-cats  in  dishyere  county  !  " 

"  'T  is  a  rabbit !  "  said  McCue, 
seizing  his  gun. 

"  It 's  a  cat !  "  said  Hogan,  "  d'  yez 
mind  th'  tail  of  ut !  " 

"  Dat  ain't  no  cat,"  said  Cassius 
contemptuously,  "  dasser  skunk." 

"  Skoonk,  is  it  ?  An'  phat  's  a 
skoonk,  ye  black  mutt  ?  "  demanded 
McCue.  At  the  same  instant  Phelan 
fired  and  missed  ;  Quinn,  paralyzed 
with  buck-fever,  clutched  his  rifle, 
mouth  agape,  while  Hogan,  in  an  ex- 
cess of  excitement,  began  shouting 
[70] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

and  kicking  the  darkey  from  snow- 
drift to  snowdrift. 

"  Now,  will  ye  grin  !  "  he  yelled  ; 
"  G'  wan  home  ye  omadhoun  !  —  " 

"  Leggo  mah  wool  !  "  retorted  the 
darkey,  and  rose  from  the  snow  with 
sullen  alacrity  :  "  Wha'  foh  yoh  yank 
mah  kinks  ? " 

"  Faith  then,  fur  luck  an'  bad- 
luck,"  said  Hogan,  and  followed  Mc- 
Cue  into  the  deserted  shanty. 

A  moment  later,  Quinn  and  Phelan 
came  back  after  an  eager  but  fortu- 
nately fruitless  quest  for  the  game, 
and  McCue  and  Hogan  issued  from 
the  shanty,  bearing  the  tin  box,  ready 
to  return  to  the  barracks. 

"  Me  heavy  hand  on  th'  naygur !  " 
growled  McCue  :  "  he 's  gone,  where  ? 
—  I  dunno,  but  he  '11  carry  the  bag 
o'  rabbits  or  me  name  's  not  McCue  ! 
Call  him,  Hogan." 

"  Come  out,  ye  bat-o'-th'-bog,  ye  ! 
Where  are  ye  now  !  —  the  Red  Witch 


SSS3SSSSSBSSSSSSSSSSBES3S3SSSSSSSSSSSSSSBE5EBSSSSSSESSS3S:i33. 

AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

o'  Drumgoole  follow  ye  !  "  shouted 
Hogan,  tramping  around  the  shanty 
and  poking  under  the  steps. 

"  Lave  th'  black  scut,"  said  McCue 
with  dignity,  "  I  '11  carry  the  sack. 
Have  ye  th'  sack  ? "  he  added,  turn- 
ing to  Phelan. 

"  I  have  not,"  said  Phelan,  "  'twas 
there  foreninst  the  shanty." 

"  Now  the  red  itch  o'  Drumgoole 
on  him  !  "  shouted  McCue.  "  Usha, 
musha,  he  's  gone  wid  the  sack,  an' 
divil  a  bit  or  a  sup  av  a  shtew  ye  '11 
eat  the  night !  Sorra  the  rabbit  he  's 
left !  —  me  heavy  hand  on  him  an' 
his  !  —  may  the  saints  sind  him  sor- 
row this  blessed  night !  " 

"  We  have  th'  ould  torn  in  th* 
box,  "  said  Quinn,  with  a  significant 
flourish  of  his  rifle. 

"  There  's  no  luck  in  it  —  Care 
killed  a  cat,  an'  worrit  the  kittens. 
Begorra  !  —  I  '11  kill  no  cat  at  all,  at 
all !  "  replied  McCue  superstitiously. 


sesesa 

AN     INTERNATIONAL     AFFAIR 

"  May  the  Dootch  robbers  choke 
whin  they  sup  this  night !  "  shouted 
Phelan ;  j"  wirra  the  day  I  set  eye 
on  the  naygur  an'  his  Dootch  whip- 
pets !  " 

"  They  '11  have  no  luck,  mark  that ! 
—  McCue  !  "  said  Hogan  :  "  We  've 
their  Tom  in  a  box  an'  they  '11  have 
no  luck  !  " 

They  gathered  up  their  rifles  in 
silence ;  McCue  carried  the  box  ;  one 
by  one  they  filed  down  the  darken- 
ing hillside  toward  the  village  where 
already  a  lantern  or  two  glimmered 
along  the  stockade  and  the  bugles 
were  sounding  the  evening  call. 

When  the  sportsmen  reached  the 
barracks,  and  it  became  known  that 
the  Jagers'  tom-cat  had  been  captured, 
the  regiment  went  wild  with  enthu- 
siasm. It  was  decided  not  to  open 
the  box  at  once,  because  the  cat  might 
hastily  migrate  toward  the  familiar 
barracks  of  the  Jagers ;  but  Quinn, 
[7J] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

the  prime  mover  in  the  capture  of 
Thomas,  was  selected  a  delegate  of 
one  to  present  the  box  to  Colonel 
Bannon  as  a  surprise  and  a  Christmas 
gift  from  the  whole  regiment. 

So,  that  night,  the  regiment  ate 
their  Christmas  dinner  in  eager  an- 
ticipation, and  their  hilarity  was 
scarcely  marred  by  Hogan's  report 
that  the  Jagers'  barracks  resounded 
with  a  joyous  din  of  feasting  and 
song. 

"  May  th'  banshee  worrit  thim  ! 
Let  them  be  wid  their  futther  —  an' 
—  mutther  !  May  the  red  banshee 
sup  with  them  in  hell  !  "  said  Quinn 
as  he  rose  in  obedience  to  the  orderly 
who  said  the  Colonel  would  receive 
him. 

He  took  the  tin  box  gingerly,  for 
the  animal  inside  was  very  lively, 
and  he  followed  the  orderly  to  the 
door  of  the  messroom  in  the  officer's 
quarters. 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

Here  the  orderly  left  him  a  mo- 
ment but  returned  directly  and  whis- 
pered : 

"  The  colonel  knows  it 's  the 
Dootch  cat  ye  have,  —  but  ye  '11  say 
ye  bought  it.  Sure  he 's  a  dacent 
man,  is  Colonel  Bannon,  an'  no  love 
lost  betwixt  him  an'  Fallback.  Are 
ye  ready  now  ?  " 

"  Yis,"  said  Quinn  firmly,  forage 
cap  in  one  hand,  box  in  the  other : 
"  is  the  rigiment  outside  on  the 
parade  ?  " 

"  It  is,  an'  ready  to  cheer." 

"Then  in  I  go,"  said  Quinn. 

The  colonel  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  flanked  by  his  staff  and  line 
officers.  His  face,  a  little  red  with 
Christmas  cheer,  was  gravely  com- 
posed for  the  occasion.  His  officers, 
to  a  man,  beamed  with  anticipation. 

"  Quinn,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  Sorr,"  said  Quinn,  standing  at 
attention. 

[75] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

"  This  is  a  very  pleasant  occasion," 
said  the  colonel,  "  and  I  am  gratified 
that  my  men  have  remembered  their 
colonel  upon  this  blessed  day.  I  am 
told  you  have  a  surprise  for  me, 
Quinn." 

"  Yis  sorr,  —  a  cat,  sorr." 

"  A  cat ! "  said  the  colonel  in  af- 
fected surprise. 

"  We  've  lost  our  goat,  sorr,  but 
we  '11  conshole  our  sorrow  wid  a  cat, 
sorr  —  Colonel  Bannon's  cat  if  you 
plaze,  sorr." 

The  colonel's  eyes  twinkled. 

" 'T  is  a  dacent  kitty,  sorr,"  said 
Quinn,  undoing  the  rope  that  held 
the  Hd  ;  "  a  Dootch  Kitty  they  do 
say  from  Poland,  sorr,  where  we  sint 
for  a  dozen  an'  this  is  the  pick  o* 
them." 

The  colonel  suppressed  a  smile ; 
the  officers  gurgled. 

"I  have  the spachless honour, sorr," 
said  Quinn,  placing  the  box  on  the 


AN     INTERNATIONAL     AFFAIR 

table  before  the  colonel,  —  "I  have 
the  unmintionable  deloight  in  pre- 
sinting  to  our  beloved  colonel  in  the 
name  av  his  beloved  rigiment,  this 
illegant  kitty  !  " 

And  he  took  off  the  lid. 

There  was  a  silence.  Suddenly  a 
long  slender  black  and  white  creature 
sprang  from  the  box  to  the  table, 
flourishing  a  beautiful  bushy  tail ; 
there  came  a  yell,  a  frightful  stampede, 
a  crash  of  glass,  a  piteous  shriek  from 
the  colonel  under  the  sofa  :  "  Quinn  ! 
Quinn  !  Ye  murtherin'  scut  !  'T  is 
a  skoonk  !  Usha,  but  I'll  have  yer 
Hfe  fur  this  night's  work  !  " 

And  Quinn,  taking  his  nose  firmly 
in  both  hands,  pranced  away  like  one 
demented  —  fled  for  his  life  through 
the  falling  snow  of  that  blessed 
Christmas  night. 

In  the  barracks  of  the  Jagers  was 
song  and  jest  and  Christmas  cheer : 

[77] 


AN     INTERNATIONAL    AFFAIR 

—  shouting  and  feasting  and  heart- 
friendships,  and  the  intermittent  din 
of  trombones. 

Cassius,  feeding  to  repletion  in  the 
kitchen  with  a  bowl  of  rabbit  stew 
between  his  knees,  paused  to  hold 
his  aching  sides  because  it  hurt  him 
to  laugh  when  he  ate.  Beside  him  on 
the  floor,  Thomas  licked  his  whisk- 
ers, and  yawned  and  stared  into  the 
dying  fire. 


i7n 


PICKETS 


"  y   -y  I,  Yank  !  " 

I 1         "Shut     up!"    replied 

i  JL  Alden,  wriggling  to  the 
edge  of  the  rifle-pit.  Connor  also 
crawled  a  little  higher  and  squinted 
through  the  chinks  of  the  pine  logs. 

"  Hey,  Johnny  !  "  he  called  across 
the  river,  "  are  you  that  clay-eatin' 
Crackei  with  green  lamps  on  your 
pilot  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Yank  !  Are  yew  the  U.  S. 
mewl  with  a  C.  S.  A.  brand  on  yewr 
head-stall  ? " 

"Go  to  hell  I  "  replied  Connor 
sullenly. 

A  jeering  laugh  answered  him  from 
across  the  river. 

"  He  had  you  there,  Connor," 
observed  Alden  with  faint  interest. 

Connor  took  off  his  blue  cap  and 
examined  the  bullet  hole  in  the  crown. 
[79] 


PICKETS 

"  C.  S.  A.  brand  on  my  head- 
stall, eh ! "  he  repeated  savagely, 
twirling  the  cap  between  his  dirty 
fingers. 

"  You  called  him  a  clay-eating 
Cracker,"  observed  Alden  ;  "  and 
you  referred  to  his  spectacles  as  green 
lanterns  on  his  pilot." 

"  I  '11  show  him  whose  head-stall  is 
branded,"  muttered  Connor,  shov- 
ing his  smoky  rifle  through  the  log 
crack. 

Alden  sHd  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  shalfow  pit  and  watched  him 
apathetically. 

The  silence  was  intense ;  the  muddy 
river,  smooth  as  oil,  swirled  noise- 
lessly between  its  fringe  of  sycamores  ; 
not  a  breath  of  air  stirred  the  leaves 
around  them.  From  the  sun-baked 
bottom  of  the  rifle-pit  came  the  stale 
smell  of  charred  logs  and  smoke- 
soaked  clothing.  There  was  a  stench 
of  sweat  in  the  air,  and  the  heavy 
[80] 


PICKETS 

odour  of  balsam  and  pine  seemed  to 
intensify  it.  Alden  gasped  once  or 
twice,  threw  open  his  jacket  at  the 
throat,  and  stuffed  a  filthy  handker- 
chief into  the  crown  of  his  cap,  ar- 
ranging the  ends  as  a  shelter  for  his 
neck. 

Connor  lay  silent,  his  right  eye 
fastened  upon  the  rifle-sight,  his  dusty 
army  shoes  crossed  behind  him.  One 
yellow  sock  had  slipped  down  over 
the  worn  shoe  heel  and  laid  bare  a 
dust-begrimed  ankle. 

In  the  heated  stillness  Alden  heard 
the  boring  of  weevils  in  the  logs 
overhead.  A  tiny  twig  snapped  some- 
where in  the  forest ;  a  fly  buzzed 
about  his  knees.  Suddenly  Connor's 
rifle  cracked  ;  the  echoes  rattled  and 
clattered  away  through  the  woods ;  a 
thin  cloud  of  pungent  vapour  slov/ly 
drifted  straight  upward,  shredding 
into  filmy  streamers  among  the  tan- 
gled branches  overhead. 
[6]  [81] 


PICKETS 


"  Get  him  ?  "  asked  Alden,  after  a 
silence. 

"  Nope,"  replied  Connor.  Then 
he  addressed  himself  to  his  late  target 
across  the  river  : 

"Hello,  Johnny!" 

"  Hi,  Yank  1 " 

"How  close?" 

"  Hey  ? " 

"How  close?" 

"  What,  sonny  ?  " 

"  My  shot,  you  fool !  " 

"  Why,  sonny  1 "  called  back  the 
Confederate  in  affected  surprise,  "  was 
yew  a  shootin'  at  me  ?  " 

Bang !  went  Connor's  rifle  again. 
A  derisive  cat-call  answered  him,  and 
he  turned  furiously  to  Alden. 

"  Oh,  let  up,"  said  the  young  fel- 
low ;  "  it 's  too  hot  for  that." 

Connor  was  speechless  with  rage, 
and  he  hastily  jammed  another  car- 
tridge into  his  long,  hot  rifle,  while 
Alden  roused  himself,  brushed  away 


PICKETS 


a  persistent  fly,  and  crept  up  to  the 
edge  of  the  pit  again. 

"  Hello,  Johnny  !  "  he  shouted. 

"  That  you,  sonny  ? "  replied  the 
Confederate. 

"  Yes.  Say,  Johnny,  shall  we  call 
it  square  until  four  o'clock  ?  " 

"  What  time  is  it  ? "  replied  the 
cautious  Confederate ;  "  all  our  expen- 
sive gold  watches  is  bein'  repaired  at 
Chickamauga." 

At  this  taunt,  Connor  showed  his 
teeth,  but  Alden  laid  one  hand  on  his 
arm  and  sang  out :  "  It 's  two  o'clock, 
Richmond  time ;  Sherman  has  just 
telegraphed  us  from  your  State- 
house." 

"  Wa-al,  in  that  case  this  crool  war 
is  over,"  replied  the  Confederate 
sharpshooter ;  "  we  '11  be  easy  on  old 
Sherman." 

"  See  here  !  "  cried  Alden  ;  "  is  it  a 
truce  until  four  o'clock  ?  " 

"  All  right !     Your  word,  Yank  !  '* 


SBSSSS5SSSSSSSSB5SSBSS53SSSSSESESSSeSSSSSSSSSeSSSBSSBSS3S3SZ 

PICKETS 

"  You  have  it !  " 

"  Done  !  "  said  the  Confederate, 
coolly  rising  to  his  feet  and  strolling 
down  to  the  river  bank,  both  hands 
in  his  pockets. 

Alden  and  Connor  crawled  out  of 
their  ill-smelling  dust  wallow,  leaving 
their  rifles  behind  them. 

"  Whew  !  It 's  hot,  Johnny,"  said 
Alden  pleasantly.  He  pulled  out  a 
stained  pipe,  blew  into  the  stem,  pol- 
ished the  bowl  with  his  sleeve,  and 
sucked  wistfully  at  the  end.  Then 
he  v/ent  and  sat  down  beside  Connor 
who  had  improvised  a  fishing  pole 
from  his  ramrod,  a  bit  of  string,  and 
a  rusty  hook. 

The  Confederate  rifleman  also  sat 
down  on  his  side  of  the  stream,  puff- 
ing luxuriously  on  a  fragrant  corn-cob 
pipe. 

Presently  the  Confederate  soldier 
raised  his  head  and  looked  across  at 
Alden. 


PICKETS 


"What's  yewr  name,  sonny?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Alden,"  replied  the  young  fellow 
briefly. 

"  Mine 's  Craig,"  observed  the 
Confederate  ;  "  what 's  yewr  regi- 
ment ?  " 

"  Two  hundred  sixtieth  New 
York;    what's    yours,   Mr.   Craig?" 

''  Ninety-third  Maryland,  Mister 
Alden." 

"  Quit  that  throwin'  sticks  in  the 
water  !  "  growled  Connor  ;  "  how  do 
you  s'pose  I  'm  goin'  to  catch  any- 
thin'  ?  " 

Alden  tossed  his  stick  back  into 
the  brush-heap  and  laughed. 

"  How  's  your  tobacco,  Craig  ?  "  he 
called  out. 

"  Bully  !  How  's  yewr  coffee  'n 
'tack,  Alden  ? " 

"  First  rate  !  "  replied  the  youth. 

After  a  silence  he  said  :  "  Is  it  a 


go? 


[^S] 


PICKETS 

"  You  bet,"  said  Craig,  fumbling 
in  his  pockets.  He  produced  a  heavy 
twist  of  Virginia  tobacco,  laid  it  on  a 
log,  hacked  off  about  three  inches 
with  his  sheath  knife,  and  folded  it 
up  in  a  big  green  sycamore  leaf. 
This  again  he  rolled  into  a  corn-husk, 
weighted  with  a  pebble,  then  stepping 
back,  he  hurled  it  into  the  air,  saying  : 
"  Deal  squar,  Yank  !  " 

The  tobacco  fell  at  Alden's  feet. 
He  picked  it  up,  measured  it  care- 
fully with  his  clasp-knife,  and  called 
out :  "  Three  and  three-quarters, 
Craig.  What  do  you  want,  hard-tack 
or  coffee  ?  " 

"  'Tack,"  replied  Craig :  "  don't 
stint !  " 

Alden  laid  out  two  biscuits.  As  he 
was  about  to  hack  a  quarter  from  the 
third  he  happened  to  glance  over  the 
creek  at  his  enemy.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  expression  in  his  face.  Star- 
vation was  stamped  on  every  feature. 
[S6] 


PICKETS 


When  Craig  caught  Alden's  eye,  he 
spat  with  elaborate  care,  whistled  a 
bar  of  the  "  Bonny  Blue  Flag,"  and 
pretended  to  yawn. 

Alden  hesitated,  glanced  at  Connor, 
then  placed  three  whole  biscuits  in 
the  corn  husk,  added  a  pinch  of  coffee, 
and  tossed  the  parcel  over  to  Craig. 

That  Craig  longed  to  fling  himself 
upon  the  food  and  devour  it  was  plain 
to  Alden,  who  was  watching  his  face. 
But  he  did  n't ;  he  strolled  leisurely 
down  the  bank,  picked  up  the  parcel, 
weighed  it  critically  before  opening  it, 
and  finally  sat  down  to  examine  the 
contents.  When  he  saw  that  the 
third  cracker  was  whole,  and  that  a 
pinch  of  coffee  had  been  added,  he 
paused  in  his  examination  and  re- 
mained motionless  on  the  bank,  head 
bent.  Presently  he  looked  up  and 
asked  Alden  if  he  had  made  a  mis- 
take. The  young  fellow  shook  his 
head  and  drew  a  long  puff  of  smoke 
[87^ 


PICKETS 


from  his  pipe,  watching  it  curl  out  of 
his  nose  with  interest. 

"  Then  I  'm  obliged  to  yew,  Alden," 
said  Craig  ;  "  'low,  I  '11  eat  a  snack  to 
see  it  ain't  pizened." 

He  filled  his  lean  jaws  with  the 
dry  biscuit,  then  scooped  up  a  tin-cup 
full  of  water  from  the  muddy  river  and 
set  the  rest  of  the  cracker  to  soak. 

"  Good  ?"  queried  Alden. 

"  Fair,"  drawled  Craig,  bolting  an 
unchewed  segment  and  choking  a 
little.     "  How  's  the  twist  ?  " 

"Fine,"  said  Alden;  "tastes  like 
stable-sweepings." 

They  smiled  at  each  other  across 
the  stream. 

"  Sa-a-y,"  drawled  Craig  with  his 
mouth  full,  "  when  yew  're  out  of 
twist,  jest  yew  sing  out,  sonny." 

"All  right,"  replied  Alden.  He 
stretched  back  in  the  shadow  of  a 
sycamore  and  watched  Craig  with 
pleasant  eyes. 

[88] 


PICKETS 


Presently  Connor  had  a  bite  and 
jerked  his  Hne  into  the  air. 

"Look  yere,"  said  Craig,  "that 
ain't  no  way  foh  to  ketch  '  red-horse.' 
Yew  want  a  ca'tridge  on  foh  a  sinker, 
sonny." 

"What's  that  ?"  inquired  Connor 

suspiciously. 

"  Put  on  a  sinker." 

"  Go  on,  Connor,"  said  Alden. 

Connor  saw  him  smoking  and 
sniffed  anxiously.  Alden  tossed  him 
the  twist,  telling  him  to  fill  his  pipe. 

Presently  Connor  found  a  small 
pebble  and  improvised  a  sinker.  He 
swung  his  line  again  into  the  muddy 
current  with  a  mechanical  sidelong 
glance  to  see  what  Craig  was  doing, 
and  settled  down  again  on  his 
haunches,  smoking  and   grunting. 

"  Enny  news,  Alden  ? "  queried 
Craig  after  a  silence. 

"  Nothing  much  —  except  that 
Richmond  has  fallen,"  grinned  Alden. 

\.89^ 


SSSSSSSSS3SSSSSE5SSSSSS3SSSESSSSBBSSScSSSSSE5SSSSSSSSeS3SSS& 

PICKETS 

"  Quit  foolin',"  urged  the  South- 
erner ;  "ain't  thar  no  news?  " 

"  No.  Some  of  our  men  down  at 
Long  Pond  got  sick  eating  catfish. 
They  caught  them  in  the  pond.  It 
appears  you  Johnnys  used  the  pond 
as  a  cemetery,  and  our  men  got  sick 
eating  the  fish." 

''  That  so  ?  "  grinned  Craig  ;  "  too 
bad.  Lots  of  yewr  men  was  in  Long 
Pond,  too,  I  reckon." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  two 
rifle-shots  sounded  faint  and  dull  from 
the  distant  forest. 

"'N other  great  Union  victory," 
drawled  Craig.  "  Extry  !  extry  !  Rich- 
mond is  took  !  " 

Alden  laughed  and  puffed  at  his 
pipe. 

"  We  Hcked  the  boots  off  of  the 
30th  Texas  last  Monday,"  he  said. 

"  Sho  !  "  exclaimed  Craig.  "  What 
did  you  go  a  lickin'  their  boots  for  ? 
—  blackin'  ?  " 

[90] 


PICKETS 


"  Oh,  shut  up  !  "  said  Connor 
from  the  bank,  "  1  can't  ketch  no  fish 
if  you  two  fools  don't  quit  jawin'." 

The  sun  was  dipping  below  the 
pine-clad  ridge,  flooding  river  and 
wood  with  a  fierce  radiance.  The 
spruce  needles  glittered,  edged  with 
gold ;  every  broad  green  leaf  wore  a 
heart  of  gilded  splendour,  and  the 
muddy  waters  of  the  river  rolled  on- 
ward like  a  flood  of  precious  metal, 
heavy,  burnished,  noiseless. 

From  a  balsam  bough  a  thrush 
uttered  three  timid  notes ;  a  great 
gauzy-winged  grasshopper  drifted 
blindly  into  a  clump  of  sun-scorched 
weeds,  click  !  click  !  cr-r-r-r  ! 

"  Purty,  ain't  it,"  said  Craig, 
looking  at  the  thrush.  Then  he 
swallowed  the  last  morsel  of  muddy 
hardtack,  wiped  his  beard  on  his 
cuff,  hitched  up  his  trousers,  took 
off  his  green  glasses,  and  rubbed  his 
eyes. 


PICKETS 


"  A  he-cat-bird  sings  purtier 
though,"  he  said  with  a  yawn. 

Alden  drew  out  his  watch,  puffed 
once  or  twice,  and  stood  up,  stretch- 
ing his  arms  in  the  air. 

"It's  four  o'clock,"  he  began, 
but  was  cut  short  by  a  shout  from 
Connor. 

"  Gee-whiz  !  "  he  yelled,  "  what 
have  I  got  on  this  here  pole  ? " 

The  ramrod  was  bending,  the  line 
swaying  heavily  in  the  current. 

"  It 's  four  o'clock,  Connor,"  said 
Alden,  keeping  a  wary  eye  on  Craig. 

"  That 's  all  right !  "  called  Craig  ; 
"  the  time  's  extended  till  yewr  friend 
lands  that  there  fish  !  " 

"  Pulls  like  a  porpoise,"  grunted 
Connor,  "damn  it!  I  bet  it  busts 
my  ramrod  !  " 

"  Does  it  pull  ?  "  grinned  Craig. 

"  Yes,  —  a  dead  weight !  " 

"  Don't  it  jerk  kinder  this  way  an' 
that  ?  "  asked  Craig,  much  interested. 


5ESHSES2S2SHSSSa5ESESSSSSE5SS2SESHSHSHSEE2SHSHSESHSHS2SHHasa. 

PICKETS 

"  Naw,"  said  Connor,  "  the  bloody 
thing  jest  pulls  steady." 

"  Then  it  ain't  no  '  red-horse,'  it 's 
a  catfish  1  " 

"  Huh  !"  sneered  Connor,  — 
"  don't  1  know  a  catfish  ?  This  ain't 
no  catfish,  lemme  tell  yer  !  " 

"  Then  it's  a  log,"  laughed  Alden. 

"  By  gum  !  here  it  comes,"  panted 
Connor ;  "  here,  Alden,  jest  you 
ketch  it  with  my  knife, — hook  the 
blade,  blame  ye  !  " 

Alden  cautiously  descended  the  red 
bank  of  mud,  holding  on  to  roots 
and  branches,  and  bent  over  the 
water.  He  hooked  the  big-bladed 
clasp  knife  like  a  scythe,  set  the 
spring,  and  leaned  out  over  the  water. 

"  Now  !  "  muttered  Connor. 

An  oily  circle  appeared  upon  the 
surface  of  the  turbid  water,  —  another 
and  another.  A  few  bubbles  rose 
and  floated  upon  the  tide. 

Then    something   black    appeared 


PICKETS 

just  beneath  the  bubbles  and  Alden 
hooked  it  with  his  knife  and  dragged 
it  shoreward. 

It  was  the  sleeve  of  a  man's  coat. 

Connor  dropped  his  ramrod  and 
gaped  at  the  thing :  Alden  would 
have  loosed  it,  but  the  knife-blade 
was  tangled  in  the  sleeve. 

He  turned  a  sick  face  up  to  Connor. 

"  Pull  it  in,"  said  the  older  man, 
— "  here,  give  it  to  me,  lad  —  " 

When  at  last  the  silent  visitor  lay 
upon  the  bank,  they  saw  it  was  the 
body  of  a  Union  cavalryman.  Alden 
stared  at  the  dead  face,  fascinated ; 
Connor  mechanically  counted  the  yel- 
low chevrons  upon  the  blue  sleeve, 
now  soaked  black.  The  muddy 
water  ran  over  the  baked  soil,  spread- 
ing out  in  dust-covered  pools ;  the 
spurred  boots  trickled  slime.  After 
a  while  both  men  turned  their  heads 
and  looked  at  Craig.  The  South- 
erner  stood    silent    and    grave,     his 


PICKETS 


battered  cap  in  his  hand.  They  eyed 
each  other  quietly  for  a  moment,  then, 
with  a  vague  gesture,  the  Southerner 
walked  back  into  his  pit  and  presently 
reappeared,  trailing  his  rifle. 

Connor  had  already  begun  to  dig 
with  his  bayonet,  but  he  glanced  up 
at  the  rifle  in  Craig's  hands.  Then 
he  looked  suspiciously  into  the  eyes 
of  the  Southerner.  Presently  he  bent 
his  head  again  and  continued  digging. 

It  was  sunset  before  he  and  Alden 
finished  the  shallow  grave,  Craig 
watching  them  in  silence,  his  rifle 
between  his  knees.  When  they  were 
ready  they  rolled  the  body  into  the 
hole  and  stood  up. 

Craig  also  rose,  raising  his  rifle  to 
a  "present."  He  held  it  there  while 
the  two  Union  soldiers  shovelled  the 
earth  into  the  grave.  Alden  went 
back  and  lifted  the  two  rifles  from 
the  pit,  handed  Connor  his,  and 
waited. 


PICKETS 


"Ready!"  growled  Connor, 
"  aim  ! 

Alden's  rifle  came  to  his  shoulder. 
Craig  also  raised  his  rifle. 

"  Fire  !  " 

Three  times  the  three  shots  rang 
out  in  the  wilderness,  over  the  un- 
known grave.  After  a  moment  or 
two  Alden  nodded  good  night  to 
Craig  across  the  river  and  walked 
slowly  toward  his  rifle-pit.  Connor 
shambled  after  him.  As  he  turned 
to  lower  himself  into  the  pit  he  called 
across  the  river : 

"  Good  night,  Craig  !  " 

"  Good  night,  Connor,"  said  Craig. 


[?<<] 


THE  GOD  of 
BATTLES 


Sovereign  of  the  world  .  .  .  these  sabres 
hold  another  language  to-day  from  that  they  held 
yesterday.  —  Vathek. 

IT  happened  so  unexpectedly,  so 
abruptly,  that  she  forgot  to 
scream.  A  moment  before,  she 
had  glanced  out  of  the  pantry  win- 
dows, dusting  the  flour  from  her  faded 
pink  apron,  and  she  saw  the  tall  oats 
motionless  in  the  field  and  the  sun- 
light sifting  through  the  corn.  In 
the  heated  stillness  a  wasp,  creeping 
up  and  down  the  window  pane,  filled 
the  dim  house  with  its  buzzing.  She 
remembered  that,  —  then  she  remem- 
bered hearing  the  clock  ticking  in 
the  darkened  dining-room.  It  was 
[7]  [p7] 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

scarcely  a  moment ;  she  bent  again 
over  her  flour  pan,  wistful,  saddened 
by  the  summer  silence,  thinking  of 
her  brother ;  then  again  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  the  window. 

It  was  too  sudden ;  she  did  not 
scream.  Had  they  dropped  from  the 
sky,  these  men  in  blue,  —  these  toil- 
ing, tramping,  crowding  creatures  ? 
The  corn  was  full  of  them,  the  pas- 
ture, the  road ;  they  were  in  the 
garden,  they  crushed  the  cucumbers 
and  the  sweet-peas,  their  muddy 
trousers  tore  tender  tendrils  from  the 
melon  vines,  their  great  shoes,  plod- 
ding across  the  potato  hills,  harrowed 
the  bronzed  earth  and  levelled  it  to 
a  waste  of  beaten  mould  and  green- 
stuff. They  passed,  hundreds,  thou- 
sands, —  she  could  not  tell,  —  and  at 
first  they  neither  spoke  nor  turned 
aside,  but  she  heard  a  harmony,  sub- 
tile, vast  as  winds  at  sea,  —  a  name- 
less murmur  that  sweeps  through 
[9^ 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

brains  of  marching  men,  —  the  voice- 
less prophecy  of  battle. 

Breathless,  spellbound,  she  moved 
on  tiptoe  to  the  porch,  one  hand 
pressed  trembling  across  her  lips. 
The  field  of  oats  shimmered  a  mo- 
ment before  her  eyes,  then  a  blue 
mass  swung  into  it  and  it  melted 
away,  sheered  to  the  earth  in  glim- 
mering swathes  as  gilded  grain  falls 
at  the  sickle's  sparkle.  And  the  men 
in  blue  covered  the  earth,  the  world, 
her  world,  which  stretched  from  the 
orchard  to  Benson's  Hill. 

There  was  something  on  Benson's 
Hill  that  she  had  never  before  seen. 
It  looked  like  a  brook  in  the  sun- 
shine ;  it  was  a  column  of  infantry, 
rifles  slanting  in  the  sun. 

Somebody  had  been  speaking  to 
her  for  a  minute  or  two,  somebody 
below  her  on  the  porch  steps,  and 
now  she  looked  down  and  saw  a  boy, 
slim,  sunburnt,  wearing  gauntlets  and 


THE    GOD     OF     BATTLES 

spurs.  His  dusty  uniform  glittered 
with  gilt  and  yellow  braid  ;  he  touched 
the  vizor  of  his  cap  and  fingered  his 
sword  hilt.  She  looked  at  him  list- 
lessly, her  hand  still  pressed  to  her 
lips. 

"  Is  there  a  well  near  the  house  ?  " 
he  asked.  After  a  moment  he  re- 
peated the  question. 

Men  with  red  crosses  on  their 
sleeves  came  across  the  grass,  trailing 
poles  and  rolls  of  dirty  canvas.  She 
saw  horses  too,  dusty  and  patient, 
tied  to  the  front  gate.  A  soldier, 
with  a  yellow  ornament  on  his  sleeve, 
stood  at  their  heads,  holding  a  red 
flag  in  one  hand. 

Something  tugged  gently  at  her 
apron,  and,  "  show  me  the  well, 
please,"  repeated  the  boy  beside  her. 

She  turned  mechanically  into  the 
house  ;  he  followed,  caking  the  rag- 
carpet  with  his  boots'  dry  mud.  In 
the  woodshed  she  started  and  turned 
[too] 


THE    GOD     OF    BATTLES 

trembling  to  him  but  he  gravely  mo- 
tioned her  on,  and  she  went,  passing 
more  swiftly  under  the  trees  of  the 
orchard  to  the  vine-covered  well- 
curb. 

He  thanked  her ;  she  pointed  at 
the  dipper  and  rope ;  but  already 
blue-clad,  red-faced  soldiers  were  low- 
ering the  bucket  and  the  orchard 
hummed  with  the  buzz  of  the  wheel. 

She  went  back  to  the  porch,  not 
through  the  house  but  around  it. 
Across  the  little  lawn  lay  crushed 
stalks  and  dying  flowers  ;  the  potato 
patch  was  a  slough  of  muddy  green. 

Soldiers  passed  in  the  sunshine. 
She  began  to  remember  that  her 
brother,  too,  was  a  soldier,  some- 
where out  in  the  world  ;  he  had  been 
a  soldier  for  nearly  a  week,  ever  since 
Jim  Bemis  had  taken  him  to  Willow 
Corners  to  enlist.  She  remembered 
she  had  cried  and  gone  into  the  pantry 
to  make  bread  and  cry  again.  She 
[/o/] 


THE     GOD     OF    BATTLES 

remembered  that  first  night,  how  she 
had  been  afraid  to  sleep  in  the  house, 
how  at  dusk  she  had  gone  into  the 
parlour  to  be  near  her  mother.  Her 
mother  was  dead,  but  her  picture 
hung  in  the  parlour. 

Soldiers  were  passing,  clutching 
their  rifle  butts  with  dirty  hands, 
turning  toward  her  countless  sun- 
dazzled  eyes.  The  shimmer  of  gun- 
barrels,  the  dancing  light  on  turning 
bayonets,  the  flicker  and  sparkle  on 
belt  and  button  dazed  and  wearied  her. 

Somebody  said,  "  We  're  the  boys 
for  the  purty  girls  !  Have  ye  no 
eyes  for  us,  lass  ? " 

Another  said,  "  Shut  up,  Mike, 
she's  not  from  the  Bowery;"  and, 
"G'wan  ye  dead  rabbit!"  retorted 
the  first. 

A  flag  passed,  and  on  it  she  read 

"  New  York,"  and  another  flag  passed, 

dipped  to   her  in  grim   salute,  while 

the  folds  shook  out  a  faded  "  Maine." 

[  ^^^] 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

She  began  to  watch  the  flags  ;  she 
saw  a  regiment  plunge  into  the  tram- 
pled corn,  but  she  knew  it  was  not  her 
brother's  because  the  trousers  of  the 
men  were  scarlet  and  the  caps  hung 
to  the  shoulders,  tasselled  and  crim- 
son. 

"  Maryland,  Maryland,  Maryland, 
6oth  Maryland,"  she  repeated,  but 
she  did  not  know  she  spoke  aloud 
until  somebody  said  :  "  It 's  yonder," 
and  a  blue  sleeve  swept  towards  the 
west. 

"  Yonder,"  she  repeated,  looking 
at  the  ridge,  cool  in  the  beechwoods' 
shadow. 

"  Is  it  the  6oth  Maryland  you 
want,  Miss  ?  "  asked  another. 

"  Silence,"  said  an  officer,  wheeling 
a  sweating  horse  past  the  porch. 

She  shrank  back,  but  turned  her 
head  toward  the  beechwoods.  As 
she  looked  a  belt  of  flame  encircled 
the  forest,  once,  twice,  again  and  yet 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

again,  and  through  the  outrushing 
smoke,  the  crash  !  crash  !  crash  !  of 
rifles  echoed  and  re-echoed  across 
the  valley. 

All  around  her  thousands  of  men 
burst  into  cheers  ;  a  deeper  harmony 
grew  on  the  idle  breeze  —  the  solemn 
tolling  of  cannon.  The  flags,  the 
bright  flags  spread  rainbow  wings  to 
the  rising  breeze  ;  they  were  breast- 
ing the  hills  everywhere.  The  din 
of  the  rifles,  the  shouting,  the  sudden 
swift  human  wave,  sweeping  by  on 
every  side,  thrilled  her  little  heart 
until  it  beat  out  the  long  roll  with 
the  rolling  drums. 

In  the  orchard  the  rattle  of  the 
bucket,  the  creak  and  whirr  of  the 
well-wheel,  never  ceased.  A  very 
young  officer  sat  on  his  horse,  eat- 
ing an  unripe  apple  and  watching 
the  men  around  the  well.  The  horse 
stretched  a  glossy  neck  toward  the 
currant  bushes,  mumbling  twigs  and 
[104] 


THE    GOD     OF     BATTLES 

sun-curled  leaves.  A  hen  wandered 
near,  peering  fearlessly  at  the  soldiers. 

The  girl  went  into  the  kitchen, 
reached  up  for  her  sun-bonnet,  dan- 
gling on  a  peg,  tied  it  under  her  chin, 
and  walked  gravely  into  the  orchard. 
The  men  about  the  well  looked  up 
as  she  passed.  They  admired  re- 
spectfully. So  did  the  very  young 
officer,  pausing,  apple  half-eaten  ;  so 
perhaps  did  the  horse,  turning  his 
large,  gentle  eyes  as  she  came  up. 

The  officer  wheeled  in  his  saddle 
and  leaned  toward  her  deferentially, 
anticipating  perhaps  complaint  or 
insult. 

In  Maryland  "Dixie"  was  sung 
as  often  as  "  The  Red,  White,  and 
Blue." 

Before  she  spoke  she  saw  that  it 
was  the  same  officer  who  had  asked 
her  about  the  well  ;  she  had  not 
noticed  he  was  so  young. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  —  and,  as 
[  ^os  ] 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

he  spoke,  he  removed  his  cap  —  "  I 
am  very  sorry  that  we  have  trampled 
your  garden.  If  you  are  loyal,"  the 
Government  will  indemnify  you  —  " 

The  sudden  crash  of  a  cannon 
somewhere  among  the  trees  drowned 
his  voice.  Stunned,  she  saw  him, 
undisturbed,  gather  his  bridle  with  a 
deprecatory  gesture.  His  voice  came 
back  to  her  through  the  ringing  in 
her  ears  :  "  We  do  not  mean  to  be 
careless,  but  we  could  not  turn  aside, 
and  your  farm  is  in  the  line  of 
advance." 

Her  ears  still  rang,  and  she  spoke, 
scarcely  hearing  her  own  voice  :  "  It 
is  not  that  —  I  am  loyal  —  it  is  only 
I  v/ish  to  ask  you  where  my  brother's 
regiment  —  where  the  6oth  Mary- 
land is." 

"  The  6oth  Maryland  — oh  —  why 
it 's  in  King's  Brigade,  Wolcott's 
Division;  I  think  it's  yonder."  He 
pointed  toward  the  beechwoods. 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

"  Yonder  ?     Where    they  are    fir- 
ing? 

Again  the  cannon  thundered  and 
the  ground  shook  under  her.  She 
saw  him  nod,  smiHng  faintly.  Other 
mounted  officers  rode  up  ;  some 
looked  at  her  curiously,  others  glanced 
carelessly  ;  the  attitudes  of  all  were 
respectful.  She  heard  them  arguing 
about  the  water  in  the  well  and  the 
length  of  the  road  to  Willow  Cor- 
ners. They  spoke  of  a  turning 
movement,  of  driving  somebody  to 
Whitehall  Station.  The  musketry 
on  the  hill  had  ceased;  the  cannon, 
too,  were  silent.  Across  the  tram- 
pled corn  a  regiment  moved  list- 
lessly to  the  tap,  tap  of  a  drum.  On 
the  road  that  circled  Benson's  Hill, 
mounted  soldiers  were  riding  fast  in 
the  dust ;  several  little  flags  bobbed 
among  them  ;  metal  on  shoulder  and 
stirrup  flashed  through  the  dust,  bur- 
nished by  the  mid-day  sun. 
[707] 


THE     GOD     OF    BATTLES 

She  heard  an  officer  say  that  there 
would  be  no  fighting,  and  she  won- 
dered, because  the  musketry  began 
again,  little  spattering  shots  among 
the  beeches  on  the  ridge,  and  behind 
the  house  drums  rolled  and  a  sudden 
flurry  of  bugle  music  filled  the  air. 
Other  officers  rode  up,  some  escorted 
by  troopers  who  bounced  in  their 
saddles  and  grasped  long-staffed  flags, 
the  butts  resting  in  their  stirrups. 

She  reached  up  and  bent  down  an 
apple  bough,  studded  with  clustered 
green  fruit.  Through  the  leaves  she 
looked  at  the  officers. 

The  sunshine  fell  in  brilliant  spots, 
dappling  flag  and  cap  and  the  broad 
backs  of  horses ;  there  was  a  jingle 
of  spurs  ever)'^where.  The  hum 
of  voices  and  the  movement  were 
grateful  to  her,  for  her  loneliness  was 
not  of  her  own  seeking.  In  the  pleas- 
ant summer  air  the  distant  gunshots 
grew  softer  and  softer  ;  the  twitter  of 
[ic8] 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

a  robin  came  from  the  ash-tree  by 
the  gate. 

Out  on  the  road  by  Benson's  Hill, 
the  cavalry  were  still  passing,  the  little 
flags  sped  along,  rising  and  falling 
with  the  column,  and  the  short  clear 
note  of  a  trumpet  echoed  the  robin's 
call. 

But  around  the  house  the  last  of 
the  troops  had  passed  ;  she  could  see 
them,  not  yet  far  away,  moving  up 
among  the  fields  toward  the  ridges 
where  the  sun  burned  on  the  bronz- 
ing scrub-oak  thickets.  The  officers, 
too,  were  leaving  the  orchard,  spurr- 
ing on,  singly  or  in  groups,  after  the 
disappearing  columns.  From  the 
main  road  came  a  loud  thudding 
and  pounding  and  clanking ;  a  battery 
of  artillery,  the  long  guns  slanted, 
the  drivers  swinging  their  thongs  — 
passed  at  a  trot.  After  it  rode  sol- 
diers in  blue  and  yellow,  then  waggons 
passed,  ponderous  grey  wains  covered 
[jog] 


THE     GOD     OF    BATTLES 

with  canvas,  and  on  either  side  clat- 
tered more  mounted  troopers,  their 
drawn  sabres  glittering  through  the 
heated  haze. 

She  stood  a  moment,  holding  the 
apple  bough,  watching  the  yellow 
dust  hanging  motionless  in  the  rear 
of  the  disappearing  column.  When 
the  last  wain  had  creaked  out  of  sight 
and  the  last  trooper  had  loped  after  it, 
she  turned  and  looked  at  the  silent 
garden,  trodden,  withered,  desolate. 
She  drew  a  long  breath,  the  apple 
bough  flew  back,  the  little  green 
apples  dancing.  A  bee  buzzed  over 
a  trampled  geranium,  a  robin  ran 
through  the  longer  grass  and  stopped 
short,  head  raised.  Beyond  Benson's 
Hill  a  bugle  blew  faintly  ;  distant  rifle 
shots  sounded  along  the  ridge ;  then 
silence  crept  through  the  sunlit  mead- 
ows, across  the  levelled  corn,  across 
dead  stalks  and  stems,  a  silence  that 
spread  like  a  shadow,  nearer,  nearer, 


r         THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

over  the  lawn,  through  the  orchard 
to  the  house,  and  then  from  corner 
to  corner,  dulling  the  ticking  of  the 
clock,  stifling  the  wasp  on  the  win- 
dow, driving  her  before  it  from  room 
to  room. 

On  the  musty  hair-cloth  sofa  in 
the  parlour  she  lay,  flung  face  down, 
hands  pressed  to  her  ears.  But 
silence  entered  with  her,  stifling  the 
sob  in  her  throat. 

When  she  raised  her  head  it  was 
dusk.  She  heard  the  murmur  of 
wind  in  the  trees  and  the  chirr  of 
crickets  from  the  fields.  She  sat 
up,  peering  fearfully  into  the  dark- 
ness, and  she  heard  the  clock  ticking 
in  the  kitchen  and  rustle  of  vines  on 
the  porch.  After  a  moment  she  rose, 
treading  softly,  and  felt  along  the  wall 
until  her  hands  rested  on  her  mother's 
picture.  Then,  no  longer  afraid,  she 
slipped  silently  across  the  room,  and 
through  the  hallway  to  the  pantry. 

[  77/  ] 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

It  was  nearly  moonrise  before  she 
had  cooked  supper ;  when  she  sat 
down  alone  at  the  long  table,  the 
moon,  yellow,  enormous,  stared  at  her 
through  the  window. 

She  sipped  her  tea,  turned  the 
lamp-wick  a  trifle  lower,  and  ate 
slowly.  The  little  grey  dusk  moths 
came  humming  in  the  open  window 
and  circled  around  her.  The  porch 
dripped  with  dew ;  there  was  a  scent 
of  night  in  the  air. 

When  she  had  sat  silent  a  little 
while  dreaming  over  the  sins  of  a 
blameless  life,  there  came  to  her, 
peace,  so  sudden,  so  perfect,  that  she 
could  not  understand.  How  should 
she  know  peace  ?  What  thought  of 
the  past  might  bring  comfort  ?  She 
could  just  remember  her  mother, — 
that  was  all.  She  loved  her  picture 
in  the  parlour.  As  for  her  father,  he 
had  died  as  he  had  lived,  a  snarling 
drunkard.      And    her   brother.''      A 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

lank,  blue-eyed  boy,  dissipated,  un- 
wholesome, already  cursed  with  his 
father's  sin  —  what  comfort  could  he 
be  to  her?  He  had  gone  away  to 
enlist ;  he  was  drunk  when  he  did  it. 

She  thought  of  all  these  things,  her 
finger  tips  resting  on  the  edge  of  the 
table.  She  thought  too  — of  the  sol- 
diers passing,  of  the  rippling  crash 
of  rifles,  the  drums,  the  cheering,  the 
sunlight  flecking  the  backs  of  the 
horses  in  the  orchard. 

There  was  a  creak  at  the  gate,  a 
click  of  a  latch,  and  the  fall  of  a  foot 
on  the  moonlit  porch.  She  half  rose; 
she  was  not  frightened.  How  she 
knew  who  it  was,  God  alone  knows, 
;  but  she  looked  up,  timidly,  under- 
standing who  was  coming,  knowing 
who  would  knock,  who  would  enter, 
who  would  speak.  And  yet  she  had 
never  seen  him  but  once  in  her  life. 

All  this  she  knew,  —  this  child 
made  wise  in  the  space  of  time  marked 

in        [//J] 


THE    GOD    OF    BATTLES 

by  the  tick  of  the  kitchen  clock  ;  but 
she  did  not  know  that  the  memory  of 
his  smile  had  given  her  the  peace  she 
could  not  understand,  she  did  not 
know  this  until  he  entered,  dusty,  slim, 
sunburnt,  his  yellow  gauntlets  folded 
in  his  belt,  his  cap  and  sabre  in  his 
hand.  Then  she  knew  it.  When 
she  understood  this  she  stood  up, 
pale,  uncertain.  He  bowed  silently 
and  stepped  forward,  fumbling  with 
his  sabre  hilt.  She  motioned  toward 
a  chair. 

He  said  he  had  a  message  for  the 
master  of  the  house,  and  glanced 
about  vaguely,  noting  the  single 
place  at  table  and  the  single  plate. 
She  said  he  might  give  the  message 
to  her. 

"  It  is  only  that  —  if  I  do  not 
inconvenience  you  too  much  —  "  he 
smiled  faintly,  —  "  if  you  would  al- 
low me,  —  well,  the  truth  is  I  am 
billeted  here  for  the  night." 


THE    GOD     OF    BATTLES 

She  did  not  know  what  that  meant 
and  he  explained. 

"  The  master  of  the  house  is 
absent,"  she  said,  thinking  of  her 
brother. 

"  Will  he  return  to-night  ?  "  he 
asked. 

She  shook  her  head ;  she  was 
thinking  that  she  did  not  want  him 
to  go  away.  Suddenly  the  thought 
of  being  alone  laid  hold  of  her  with 
fresh  horror. 

"  You  may  stay,"  she  said  faintly. 
He  bowed  again.  She  asked  him 
if  he  cared  for  supper,  with  a  ges- 
ture toward  the  table,  and  when  he 
thanked  her  she  took  courage  and 
told  him  where  to  hang  his  cap  and 
sabre. 

There  was  a  small  room  between 
the  parlour  and  the  dining-room. 
She  offered  it  to  him,  and  he  ac- 
cepted gratefully.  While  she  was 
in  the  kitchen,  toasting  more  bread. 


THE     GOD     OF    BATTLES 

she  heard  him  go  to  the  front  door 
and  call.  There  came  a  clatter  of 
hoofs,  a  quick  word  or  two,  and,  as 
she  re-entered  the  dining-room,  he 
met  her.  "  My  orderly,"  he  ex- 
plained, — "  he  may  sleep  in  the 
stable,  may  he  not  ?  " 

"My  own  bed-room  is  all  I  have 
here,"  she  said. 

"  Not  —  not  the  one  you  gave 
me  !  "  he  asked. 

She  nodded.  "  You  may  have  it, 
—  I  often  sleep  in  the  parlour,  —  I 
did  when  my  brother  was  home." 

"  If  I  had  had  any  idea  —  "  he 
burst  out.  She  stopped  him  with  a 
gesture  ;  but  he  insisted  and  at  last 
he  had  his  own  way.  "  If  I  may 
sleep  in  the  parlour,  I  will  stay,"  he 
said,  and  she  nodded  and  seated  her- 
self at  the  table. 

He  ate  a  great  deal;  she  wondered 
a  little,  but  nodded  again  at  his  ex- 
cuses, and  insisted  that  he  must  have 


THE    GOD     OF    BATTLES 

more  tea.  She  watched  him  ;  the 
lamplight  fell  softly  on  his  boyish 
head,  on  his  faint  moustache,  and 
bronzed  hands.  He  ate  much  bread 
and  butter  and  many  eggs;  he  spoke 
about  his  orderly  and  the  horses,  and 
presently  asked  for  a  lantern.  She 
brought  him  one  ;  he  lighted  it. 

When  he  had  gone  away  with  his 
lantern,  she  rested  her  white  face  in 
her  hands  and  looked  at  his  empty 
chair.  She  thought  of  her  brother, 
she  thought  of  the  village  people 
who  leered  askance  when  she  was 
obliged  to  go  to  the  store  at  Wil- 
low Corners.  The  mention  of  her 
father's  name,  of  her  brother's  name 
in  the  village  aroused  sneers  or 
laughter.  As  long  as  she  could 
remember  the  one  great  longing  of 
her  life  had  been  to  be  respected. 
She  had  seen  her  father  fall  at  night 
in  the  village  street,  drunk  as  a  hog  ; 
she  had  seen  her  brother  reel  across 


THE     GOD     OF    BATTLES 

the  fields  at  noonday.  She  knew 
that  all  the  world  knew  —  her  world 
—  that  she  was  merely  one  of  a 
drunkard's  family.  She  never  spoke 
to  a  neighbour,  nor  did  she  answer 
when  spoken  to.  She  carried  her 
curse,  —  and  her  longing,  —  suppos- 
ing that  she  was  a  thing  apart.  In 
the  orchard  at  midday  a  man,  a 
young  boy,  a  soldier,  had  spoken  to 
her  and  looked  at  her  in  a  way  she 
had  never  known.  All  at  once  she 
realised,  dreaming  there  in  the  lamp- 
light, that  she  was  a  woman  to  him, 
like  other  women ;  a  woman  to  be 
spoken  to  with  deference,  a  woman 
to  be  approached  with  courtesy.  She 
had  read  it  in  his  eyes,  she  had  heard 
it  in  his  voice.  It  was  this  that 
brought  to  her  a  peace  as  gracious, 
as  sweet,  as  the  eyes  that  had  met 
her  own  in  the  orchard. 

He    was    coming    back    from    the 
stable  now,  —  she    heard    his    spurs 
I  118} 


THE    GOD     OF     BATTLES 

click  across  the  grass  by  the  orchard. 
And  now  he  had  entered,  now  he 
was  there,  sitting  opposite,  smiHhg 
vaguely  across  the  table.  A  rush 
of  tears  blinded  her  and  she  looked 
out  into  the  night  where  the  yellow 
moon  stared  and  stared. 

She  found  herself  in  the  parlour 
after  a  while,  silent,  listening  to  his 
voice  ;  and  all  about  her  was  peace, 
born  of  the  peace  within  her  breast. 

He  told  her  of  the  war.  She  had 
never  before  cared,  but  now  she 
cared.  He  spoke  of  long  marches, 
of  hunger  and  of  thirst,  with  a  boy- 
ish laugh,  and  she  laughed  too,  not 
knowing  how  else  to  show  her  pity. 
He  spoke  of  the  Land,  and  now,  for 
the  first  time,  she  loved  it;  she  knew 
it  was  also  her  Land.  He  spoke  of 
the  flag  and  what  it  meant.  In  her 
home  she  had  no  symbol  of  her 
country,  and  she  told  him  so.  He 
drew  a  penknife  from  his  pocket,  cut 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

a  button  from  his  collar,  and  handed 
it  to  her.  On  the  button  was  an 
eagle  and  stars,  and  she  pinned  it 
over  her  heart,  looking  at  him  with 
innocent  eyes. 

She  told  him  of  her  mother, —  she 
could  not  tell  much  but  she  told  him 
all  she  remembered.  Then,  involun- 
tarily, she  told  him  more,  —  about 
her  life,  her  hopes  long  dead,  her 
brother  bearing  his  father's  name  and 
curse.  She  had  not  meant  to  do  this 
at  first ;  but  as  she  spoke  she  had 
a  dim  idea  that  he  ought  to  know 
who  it  was  that  he  treated  with  gen- 
tleness and  deference.  She  knew  it 
would  not  change  anything  in  him, 
that  he  would  be  the  same.  Perhaps 
it  was  a  vague  hope  that  he  might 
advise  her,  —  perhaps  be  sorry,  she 
could  not  analyse  it,  but  she  felt  the 
necessity  of  speaking. 

There  is  a  time  for  all  things  ex- 
cept confession.     But,  to  the  lonely 

[120] 


THE     GOD     OF     BATTLES 

soul,  long  Stifled,  time  is  chosen  for 
confession  when  God  sends  the 
opportunity. 

She  spoke  of  honour  as  she  under- 
stood it ;  she  spoke  of  dishonour  as 
she  had  known  it. 

When  she  was  silent,  he  began  to 
speak,  and  she  listened  breathlessly. 
Ah,  but  she  was  right !  The  God  of 
Battles  had  sent  to  her  a  messenger 
of  peace.  Out  of  the  smoke  and 
flame  he  had  come  to  find  her  and 
pity  her.  Through  him  she  knew 
she  was  worthy  of  respect,  through 
him  she  learned  her  womanhood, 
from  his  lips  she  heard  the  truths 
of  youth,  which  are  truer  than  the 
truths  of  age. 

He  sat  there  In  the  lamplight,  his 
gilt  straps  gleaming,  his  glittering 
spurs  ringing  true  with  every  move- 
ment, his  bronzed  young  face  bent 
to  hers.  She  knew  he  knew  every- 
thing  that    man    could    know ;    she 

[72/] 


THE    GOD     OF    BATTLES 

drank  in  what  he  said,  humbly. 
When  he  ceased  speaking,  she  still 
looked  into  his  eyes.  Their  brill- 
iancy dazzled  her ;  the  lamp  spun  a 
halo  behind  his  head.  Wondering 
at  his  knowledge,  she  wondered  what 
those  things  might  be  that  he  knew 
and  had  not  told.  He  was  smiling 
now.  She  felt  the  power  and  mys- 
tery of  his  eyes. 

It  is  true  that  he  had  not  told  her 
all  he  knew,  —  although  what  a  boy 
of  eighteen  knows  is  soon  told.  He 
had  not  told  her  that  her  brother  lay 
buried  in  a  trench  in  the  beech-grove 
on  the  ridge,  shot  by  court-martial 
for  desertion  in  the  face  of  the  en- 
emy. Yet  that  was  the  very  thing 
he  had  come  to  tell  her. 

About  midnight,  when  they  had 
been  whispering  long  together,  he 
told  her  that  her  brother  was  dead. 
He  told  her  that  death  with  honour 
wiped  out  every  stain,  and  she  cried 
[122] 


THE    GOD     OF    BATTLES 

a  little  and  blessed  God,  —  the  God 
of  Battles,  who  had  purified  her 
brother  in  the   flames   of  war. 

And  that  night,  when  he  lay  asleep 
on  the  musty  hair-cloth  sofa,  she 
crept  in,  white,  silent,  and  kissed  his 
hair. 

He  never  knew  it.  In  the  morn- 
ing he  rode  away. 


[^-^J] 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
204 


